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Form No 513, 
| Rev. 1/84 


(, Meese : to = =6 SUNN SOO YUUT 


‘ 7 . Ke we : 
MBS. ELLIS: 


COMPRISING 


“THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “WIVES OF ENGLAND,” “DAUGHTERS OF 
| ENGLAND,” “POETRY OF LIFE,” &e. 


DESIGNED 


TO PROMOTE THE CULTIVATION 


or 


THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES. 


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“* Would you judge of the lawfulness or utlawfulness of pleasure, take this rule: Whatever weakens your reason, impairs 
the tenderness of your conscience, obscures your sense of God, or takes off the relish of spiritual things ;—in short, atc. 
ghee the strength and authority of your body over your mind, that thing is sin to you, however innocent it may 


In itself, 


AUTHORIZED EDITION. 


NEW YORK: 
Jo & H. G. LANGLE Ye rape 


M DCCC XLIV. 


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YSOCIAL DUTHES AND DOMESTIC EAB 


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FISHER, SON & C® LONDON & PARIS, 


T&H, G, LANGLEY NEW YORE. 


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THEIR 


SOCIAL DUTIES, AND DOMESTIC HABITS. 


EI NS 


WOMEN OF ENGLAND: | 


BY MRS. ELLIS, 


AUTHOR OF ‘‘THE POETRY OF LIFE,” “PICTURES OF PRIVATE LIFE,” Etc. ETc 


UNIFORM EDITION, 
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


NEW-YORK: 


J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET. | 
1843. 


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PREFACE. 


At a time when the pressure of stir- 
ring events, and the urgency of public 
and private interests, render it increas- 
ingly desirable that every variety of la- 
bor should be attended with an immediate 
and adequate return; I feel that some 
apology is necessary for the presumption 
of inviting the attention of the public to 
a work, in which I have been compelled 
| to enter into the apparently insignificant 
| detail of familiar and ordinary life. 

The often-repeated truth—that “ trifles 
make the sum of human things,” must 
plead my excuse; as well as the fact, 
that while our libraries are stored with 
books of excellent advice on general con- 
duct, we have no single work containing 
the particular minutie of practical duty, 
to which I have felt myself called upon 
to invite the consideration of the young 
women of the present day. We have 
many valuable dissertations upon female 
character, as exhibited on the broad scale 
of virtue ; but no direct definition of those 
minor parts of domestic and social inter- 
course, which strengthen into habit, and 
consequently form the basis of moral 
character. 

It is worthy of remark, also, that these 
writers have addressed their observations 


almost exclusively to /adies, or occasion- 
ally to those who hold a subordinate situ- 
ation under the influence of ladies; while 
that estimable class of females who might 
be more specifically denominated women, 
and who yet enjoy the privilege of liberal 
education, with exemption from the pe- 
/cuniary necessities of labor, are almost 
\|.wholly overlooked. . 


It is from a high estimate of the im- 
portance of this class in upholding the 
moral worth of our country, that I have 
addressed my remarks especially to them ; 
and in order to do so with more effect, I 
have ventured to penetrate into the famil- 
iar scenes of domestic life, and have thus 
endeavored to lay bare some of the causes 
which frequently lie hidden at the root of 
general conduct. 

Had I not known before the commence- 
ment of this work, its progress would soon 
have convinced me, that in order to per- 
form my task with candor and faithful- 
ness, [ must renounce all idea of what is 
called fine writing; because the very na- 


ture of the duty I have undertaken, re- | 


stricts me to the consideration of subjects, 
too minute in themselves, to admit of their 
being expatiated upon with eloquence by 
the writer—too familiar to produce upon 
the reader any startling effect. Had I 
even felt within myself a capability for 
treating any subject in this manner, I 
should have been willing in this instance 
to resign all opportunity of such display, 
if, by so doing, I could more clearly point 
out to my countrywomen, by what means 
they may best meet that pressing exigen- 
cy of the times, which so urgently de- 
mands a fresh exercise of moral power 
on their part, to win back to the homes of 
England the boasted felicity for which 
they once were famed. 

Anxious as I am to avoid the charge of 
unnecessary trifling on a subject so seri- 
ous as the moral worth of the women of 
England, there is beyond this a consider- 
ation of far higher importance, to which 


ae 


& PREFACE. 


I would invite the candid attention of the 
serious part of the public, while I offer, 
| what appears to me a sufficient apology, 
for having written a book on the subject 
of morals, without having made it strictly 
religious. I should be sorry indeed, if, 
by so doing, I brought upon myself the 
suspicion of yielding for one moment to 
the belief that there is any other sure 
foundation for good morals, than correct 
religious principle; but I do believe, that, 
with the Divine blessing, a foundation 
may be laid in early life, before the heart 
has been illuminated by Divine truth, or 
has experienced its renovating power, for 
those domestic habits, and relative duties, 
which in after life will materially assist 
the development of the Christian charac- 
ter. And I am the more convinced of 
this, because we sometimes see, in sincere 
and devoted Christians, such peculiarities 
of conduct as materially hinder their 
usefulness—such early-formed habits, as 
they themselves would be glad to escape 
from, but which continue to cling around 
them in their earthly course, like the 
‘clustering of weeds in the traveller’s 
path. 

It may perhaps more fully illustrate 
my view of this important subject to say, 
that those who would train up young peo- 
ple without the cultivation of moral hab- 
its, trusting solely to the future influence 
of religion upon their hearts, are like 


mariners, who, while they wait for their 
bark to be safely guided out to sea, allow 
their sails to swing idly in the wind, their 
cordage to become entangled, and the 
general outfit of their vessel to suffer in- 
jury and decay; so that when the pilot 
comes on board they lose much of the 
advantage of his services, and fail to de- 
rive the anticipated benefit from his pres- 
ence. 

All that I would venture to recommend 
with regard to morals, is, that the order 
and right government of the vessel should, 
as far as is possible, be maintained, so 
that when the hope of better and surer 
guidance is realized, and the heavenly 
Pilot in his own good time arrives, all | 
things may be ready—nothing out of or- 
der, and nothing wanting, for a safe and 
prosperous voyage. | 

It is therefore solely to the cultivation 
of habits that I have confined my atten- 
tion—io the minor morals of domestic life. 
And I have done this, because there are 
so many abler pens than mine employed 
in teaching and enforcing the essential 
truths of religion; because there is an 
evident tendency in society, as it exists in 
the present day, to overlook these minor 
points; and because it is impossible for 
them to be neglected, without serious in- 
jury to the Christian character. 

Saray Stickney Enxuis. 


PENTONVILLE, Noy. 1838. 


THE 


WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER I. 
CHARACTERISTICS OF THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


Every country has its peculiar character- 

istics, not only of climate and scenery, of 

| public institutions, government, and laws; 

but every country has also its moral charac- 

teristics, upon which is founded its true title 

| to a station, either high or low, in the scale 
of nations. sale: 

The national characteristics of England 
are the perpetual boast of her patriotic sons; 
and there is one especially which it behooves 
all British subjects not only to exult in, but to 
cherish and maintain. Leaving the justice 
of her laws, the extent of her commerce, and 
the amount of her resources, to the orator, 
the statesman, and the political economist, 
there yet remains one of the noblest features 
in her national character, which may not im- 
properly be regarded as within the compass 
of a woman’s understanding, and the prov- 
ince of a woman’s pen. It is the domestic 
character of England—the home comforts, 

/ and fireside virtues for which she is so justly 
celebrated. ‘These I hope to be able to speak 
of without presumption, as intimately asso- 
ciated with, and dependent upon, the moral 
feelings and habits of the women of this fa- 
vored country. 

It is therefore in reference to these alone 
that I shall’ endeavor to treat the subject of 
England’s nationality; and in order to do 
| this with more precision, it is necessary to 
draw the line of observation within a nar- 
rower circle, and to describe what are the 
characteristics of the women of England. I 


| ought, perhaps, in strict propriety, to say 


ee 


| 
| 
| 
} 


would justify the obtrusiveness of a work 
like this by first premising that the women 
of England are deteriorating in their moral 


character, and that false notions of refine- 


what were their characteristics; because I 


ment are rendering them less influential, less 
useful, and less happy than they were. 

‘In speaking of what English women were, 
I would not be understood to refer to what 
they were a century ago. Facilities in the 
way of mental improvement have greatly in- 
creased during this period. In connection 
with moral discipline, these facilities are in- 
valuable ; but I consider the two excellences 
as having been combined in the greatest per- 
fection in the general average of women who 
have now attained to: middle, or rather ad- 
vanced age. 


take precedence of the moral, by leaving no 
time for domestic usefulness, and the practice 
of personal exertion in the way of promoting | 
general happiness, the character of the wo- | 
men of England assumed a different aspect, | 
which is now beginning to tell upon society | 
in the sickly sensibilities, the feeble frames, | 
and the useless habits of the rising generation. 
In stating this humiliating fact, I must be 
blind indeed to the most cheering aspect of 
modern society, not to perceive that there 
are signal instances of women who carry 
about with them into every sphere of domes- 
tic duty, even the most humble and obscure, 
the accomplishments and refinements of mod- 
ern education; and who deem it rather an 
honor than a degradation to be permitted to 
add to the sum of human happiness, by dif- 
fusing the embellishments of mind and man- 


When the cultivation of the | 
mental faculties had so far advanced as to | 


6 


ners over the homely and familiar aspect of 
every-day existence. 

Such, however, do not constitute the ma- 
jority of the female population of Great 
Britain. By far the greater portion of the 
young ladies (for they are no longer women) 
of the present day, are distinguished by a 
morbid listlessness of mind and body, except 
when under the influence of stimulus, a con- 
stant pining for excitement, and an eagerness 
to escape from every thing like practical and 
individual duty. Of course, I speak of those 
whose minds are not under the influence of 
religious principle. Would that the excep- 
tion could extend to all who profess to be 
governed by this principle ! 

Gentle, inoffensive, delicate, and passively 
amiable as many young ladies are, it seems 
an ungracious task to attempt to rouse them 
from their summer dream; and were it not 
that wintry days will come, and the surface 
of life be ruffled, and the mariner, even she 
who steers the smallest bark, be put upon the 
inquiry for what port she is really bound— 
were it not that the cry of utter helplessness 
is of no avail in rescuing from the waters of 
affliction, and the plea of ignorance unheard 
upon the far-extending and deep ocean of 
experience, and the question of accounta- 
bility perpetually sounding, like the voice of 
a warning spirit, above the storms and the 
billows of this lower world—I would be one 
of the very last to call the dreamer back to 
a consciousness of present things. But this 
state of listless indifference, my sisters, must 
not be. You have deep responsibilities ; 
you have urgent claims; a nation’s moral 
worth is in your keeping. Let us inquire 
then in what way it may be best preserved. 
Let us consider what you are, and have 
been, and by what peculiarities of feeling and 
habit you have been able to throw so much 
additional weight into the scale of your 
country’s worth. 

In order to speak with precision of the 
characteristics of any class of people, it is 
necessary to confine our attention as much 
as possible to that portion of the class where 
such characteristics are most prominent; 


CHARACTERISTICS OF 


and, avoiding the two extremes where cir- 
cumstances not peculiar to that class are 
supposed to operate, to take the middle or 
intervening portion as a specimen of the 
whole. 

Napoleon Bonaparte was accustomed to 
speak of the English nation as a “nation of 
shopkeepers ;”” and when we consider the 
number, the influence, and the respectability 
of that portion of the inhabitants who are, 
directly or indirectly, connected with our 
trade and merchandise, it does indeed ap- 
pear to constitute the mass of English so- 
ciety, and may justly be considered as ex- 
hibiting the most striking and unequivocal 
proofs of what are the peculiar characteris- 
tics of the people of England. It is not 
therefore from the aristocracy of the land 
that the characteristics of English women 
should be taken; because the higher the 
rank, and the greater the facilities of com- 
munication with other countries, the more 
prevalent are foreign manners, and modes of 
thinking and acting common to that class of 
society in other countries. Neither is it en- 
tirely among the indigent and most laborious 
of the community, that we can with pro- 
priety look for those strong features of na- 
tionality, which stamp the moral character 
of different nations ; because the urgency of 
mere physical wants, and the pressure of 
constant and necessary labor, naturally in- 
duce a certain degree of resemblance in so- 
cial feelings and domestic habits, among 
people similarly circumstanced, to whatever 
country they may belong. 

In looking around, then, upon our “ nation 
of shopkeepers,” we readily perceive that by 
dividing society into three classes, as regards 
what is commonly called rank, the middle 
class must include so vast a portion of the 
intelligence and moral power of the country 
at large, that it may not improperly be desig- 
nated the pillar of our nation’s strength, its 


base being the important class of the labo- | 


rious poor, and its rich and highly ornamental 


capital, the ancient nobility of the land. Inno || 


other country is society thus beautifully pro- 
portioned, and England should beware of any 


> 
~ 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 7 


deviation from the order and symmetry of 
her national column. 

There never was a more short-sighted 
| view of society, than that by which the wo- 
| men of our country have lately learned to 
| look with envious eyes upon their superiors 

in rank, to rival their attainments, to imitate 
their manners, and to pine for the luxuries 
they enjoy; and consequently to look down 
with contempt upon the appliances and 
means of humbler happiness. The women 
of England were once better satisfied with 
that instrumentality of Divine wisdom by 
which they were placed in their proper 
sphere. They were satisfied to do with 
their own hands what they now leave un- 
done, or repine that they cannot have others 
to do for them. 

A system of philosophy was once promul- 
‘gated in France, by which it was attempted 
to be proved that so much of the power and 
the cleverness of man was attributable to his 
hand, that but for a slight difference in the 
formation of this organ in some of the infe- 
rior animals, they would have been entitled to 
rank in the same class with him. Whatever 
may be said of the capabilities of man’s hand, 
I believe the feminine qualification of being 
able to use the hand willingly and well, has 


of woman. The personal services she is thus 
enabled to render, enhance her value in the 
domestic circle, and when such services are 
performed with the energy of a sound under- 
standing, and the grace of an accomplished 
mind—above all, with the disinterested kind- 
ness of a generous heart—they not only dig- 
nify the performer, but confer happiness, as 
well as obligation. Indeed, so great is the 
charm of personal attentions arising sponta- 
neously from the heart, that women of the 
highest rank in society, and far removed from 
the necessity of individual exertion, are fre- 
quently observed to adopt habits of personal 
kindness towards others, not only as the 
surest means of giving pleasure, but as a 
natural and grateful relief to the overflowings 
of their own affections. 

There is a principle in woman’s love, that 


a great deal to do with the moral influence. 


renders it impossible for her to be satisfied 
without actually doing something for the ob- 
ject of her regard. I speak only of woman 
in her refined and elevated character. Vani- 
ty can satiate itself with admiration, and 
selfishness can feed upon services received ; 
but woman’s love is an overflowing and inex- 
haustible fountain, that must be perpetually 
imparting from the source of its own blessed- 


ness. It needs but slight experience to know, 
that the mere act of loving our fellow-crea- 
tures does little towards the promotion of 
their happiness. ‘The human heart is not so 
credulous as to continue to believe in affec- 
tion without practical proof’ Thus the inter- - 
change of mutual kind offices begets a confi- 
dence which cannot be made to grow out of 
any other foundation; and while gratitude 
is added to the connecting link, the character 
on each side is strengthened by the personal 
energy required for the performance of every 
duty. i 

There may exist great sympathy, kind- | 
ness, and benevolence of feeling, without the | 
power of bringing any of these emotions into | 
exercise for the benefit of others. They exist | 
as emotions only. And thus the means which © 
appear to us as the most gracious and benig- 
nant of any that could have been adopted by | 
our heavenly Father for rousing us into ne- 
cessary exertion, are permitted to die away, 
fruitless and unproductive, in the breast, 
where they ought to have operated as a | 
blessing and means of happiness to others. 

It is not uncommon to find negatively 
amiable individuals, who sink undera weight | 
of indolence, and suffer from innate selfish- 
ness a gradual contraction of mind, perpetu- 
ally lamenting their own inability to do good. 
It would be ungenerous to doubt their sin- | 
cerity in these regrets. We therefore only — 
conclude that the want of habits of personal 
usefulness has rendered them mentally im- | 
becile, and physically inert; whereas, had | 
the same individuals been early accustomed 
to bodily exertion, promptly and cheerfully 
performed on the spur of the moment, with- 
out waiting to question whether it was agree- 
able or not, the very act of exertion would 


eee! 


— 


8 CHARACTERISTICS OF 


have become a pleasure, and the benevolent 
purpose to which such exertions might be 
applied, a source of the highest enjoyment. 
Time was when the women of England 
were accustomed, almost from their child- 
hood, to the constant employment of their 
hands. It might be sometimes in elaborate 


| works of fancy, now ridiculed for their want 


of taste, and still more frequently in house- 
hold avocations, now fallen into disuse from 


| their incompatibility with modern refinement. 
| I cannot speak with unqualified praise of all 
| the oljects on which they bestowed their 


attention; but, if it were possible, I would 
write 1a characters of gold the indisputable 
fact, that the habits of industry and personal 
exertion thus acquired, gave them a strength 
and dignity of character, a power of useful- 
ness, and a capability of doing good, which 
the higher theories of modern education fail 
to impart. They were in some instances 
less qualified for travelling on the continent 
without an interpreter, but the women of 


whom I am speaking seldom went abroad. | but few women whose hands have been idle 


Their sphere of action was at their own fire- 


sides, and the world in which they moved 


was one where pleasure of the highest, 
purest order, naturally and necessarily arises 
out of acts of duty faithfully performed. 
Perhaps it may be necessary to be more 
specific in describing the class of women to 
which this work relates. It is, then, strictly 
speaking, to those who belong to that great 
mass of the population of England which is 


| connected with trade and manufactures ;— 


or, in order to make the application more di- 
rect, to that portion of it who are restricted 
to the services of from one to four domestics, 
—who, on the one hand, enjoy the advan- 
tages of a liberal education, and, on the other, 
have no pretension to family rank. It is, 
however, impossible but that many devia- 
tions from these lines of demarkation must 
occur, in consequence of the great change in 
their pecuniary circumstances, which many 
families during a short period experience, 
and the indefinite order of rank and station in 
which the elegances of life are enjoyed, or 
its privations endured. There is also this 


peculiarity to be taken into account, in our 
view of English society, that the acquisition 
of wealth, with the advantages it procures, is 
all that is necessary for advancement to 
aristocratic dignity ; while, on the other hand, 
so completely is the nation dependent upon 
her commercial resources, that it is no un- 
common thing to see individuals who lately 
ranked among the aristocracy, suddenly 
driven, by the failure of some bank or some 
mercantile speculation, into the lowest walks 
of life, and compelled to mingle with the la- 
borious poor. 

These facts are strong evidence in favor of 
a system of conduct that would enable all 
women to sink gracefully, and without mur- 
muring against Providence, into a lower 
grade of society. It is easy to learn to enjoy, 
but it is not easy to learn to suffer. 

Any woman of respectable education, pos- 
sessing a well-regulated mind, might move 
with ease and dignity into a higher sphere 
than that to which she had been accustomed ; 


all their lives, can feel themselves compelled 
to do the necessary labor of a household, 
without a feeling of indescribable hardship, 
too frequently productive of a secret mur- 
muring against the instrumentality by which 
she was reduced to such a lot. 

It is from the class of females above de- 
scribed, that we naturally look for the highest 
tone of moral feeling, because they are at the 
same time removed from the pressing neces- 
sities of absolute poverty, and admitted to 
the intellectual privileges of the great; and 
thus, while they enjoy every facility in the 
way of acquiring knowledge, it is their still 
higher privilege not to be exempt from the 
domestic duties which call forth the best en: 
ergies of the female character. 

Where domestics abound, and there is a 
hired hand for every kindly office, it would 
be a work of supererogation for the mistress 
of the house to step forward, and assist with 
her own; but where domestics are few, and 
the individuals who compose the household 
are thrown upon the consideration of the 
mothers, wives, and daughters for their daily 


comfort, innumerable channels are opened 
for the overflow of those floods of human 
kindness, which it is one of the happiest and 
most ennobling duties of woman to administer 
to the weary frame, and to pour into the 
wounded mind. 

It is perhaps the nearest approach we can 
make towards any thing like a definition of 
what is most striking in the characteristics of 
the women of England, to say, that the nature 
of their domestic circumstances is such as to 
invest their characters with the threefold re- 
commendation of promptitude in action, ener- 
gy of thought, and benevolence of feeling. With 
all the responsibilities of family comfort and 
social enjoyment resting upon them, and un- 
aided by those troops of menials who throng 
the halls of the affluent and the great, they 
are kept alive to the necessity of making 
their own personal exertions conducive to 
the great end of promoting the happiness of 
those around them. ‘They cannot sink into 
supineness, or suffer any of their daily duties 
to be neglected, but some beloved member 
of the household is made to feel the conse- 
quences, by enduring inconveniences which 
it is alike their pride and their pleasure to 
remove. The frequently recurring avoca- 
tions of domestic life admit of no delay. 
When the performance of any kindly office 
has to be asked for, solicited, and re-solicited, 
it loses more than half its charm. It is there- 
fore strictly in keeping with the fine tone of 
an elevated character to be beforehand with 
expectation, and thus to show, by the most 
delicate yet most effectual of all human 
means, that the object of attention, even when 
unheard and unseen, has been the subject of 
kind and affectionate solicitude. 

By experience in these apparently minute 
affairs, a woman of kindly feeling and prop- 
erly disciplined mind, soon learns to regu- 
late her actions also according to the prin- 
ciples of true wisdom, and hence arises that 
energy of thought for which the women of 
England are so peculiarly distinguished. 
Every passing event, however insignificant 
to the eye of the world, has its crisis, every 
occurrence its emergency, every cause its 


ave a ea rT ee a Tn a 
srs Sse 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


9 


effect; and upon these she has to calculate 
with precision, or the machinery of house- 
hold comfort is arrested in its movements, 
and thrown into disorder. | 

Woman, however, would but ill supply 
the place appointed her by Providence, were 
she endowed with no other faculties than 
those of promptitude in action and energy of 
thought. Valuable as these may be, they 
would render her but a cold and cheerless 
companion, without the kindly affections and 
tender offices that sweeten human life. It is 
a high privilege, then, which the women of 
England enjoy, to be necessarily, and by the 
force of circumstances, thrown upon their 
affections, for the rule of their conduct in 
daily life. “ What shall I do to gratify myself 
—to be admired—or to vary the tenor of my 
existence ?’’ are not the questions which a 
woman of right feelings asks on first awak- 
ing to the avocations of the day. Much 
more congenial to the highest attributes of 
woman’s character, are inquiries such as 
these: “ How shall I endeavor through this 
day to turn the time, the health, and the 
means permitted me to enjoy, to the best ac- 
count —Is any one sick? I must visit their 
chamber without delay, and try to give their 
apartment an air of comfort, by arranging 
such things as the wearied nurse may not 
have thought of. Is any one about to set off 
ona journey? I must see that the early meal 
is spread, or prepare it with my own hands, 
in order that the servant, who was working 
late last night, may profit by unbroken rest. 
Did | failin what was kind or considerate to 
any of the family yesterday? I will meet her 
this morning with a cordial welcome, and 
show, in the most delicate way I can, that I 
am anxious to atone forthe past. Was any 
one exhausted by the last day’s exertion? I 
will be an hour before. them this morning, 
and let them see that their labor is so much 
in advance. Or, if nothing extraordinary oc- 
curs to claim my attention, I will meet the 
family with a consciougness that, being the 
least engaged of any member of it, Tam con- 
sequently the most at liberty to devote myself 
to the general good of the whole, by cultiva- 


10 


CHARACTERISTICS OF 


ting cheerful conversation, adapting myself to 
the prevailing tone of feeling, and leading 
those who are least happy, to think and speak 
of what will make them more so.” ~ | 

Who can believe that days, months, and 
years spent in a continual course of thought 
and action similar to this, will not produce a 
powerful effect upon the character, and not 
only upon the individual who thinks and acts 
alone, but upon all to whom her influence 
extends? In short, the customs of English 
society have so constituted women the guar- 
dians of the comfort of their homes, that, like 
the Vestals of old, they cannot allow the lamp 
they cherish to be extinguished, or to fail for 
want of oil, without an equal share of degra- 
dation attaching to their names. 

In other countries, where the domestic 
lamp is voluntarily put out, in order to allow 
the women to resort to the opera, or the 
public festival, they are not only careless 
about their home comforts, but necessarily 
ignorant of the high degree of excellence to 
which they might be raised. In England 
there is a kind of science of good household 
management, which, if it consisted merely in 
keeping the house respectable in its physical 
character, might be left to the effectual work- 
ing out of hired hands; but, happily for the 
women of England, there is a philosophy m 
this science, by which all their highest and 
| best feelings are called into exercise. Not 
| only must the house be neat and clean, but 
it must be so ordered as to suit the tastes of 
all, as far as may be, without annoyance or 
offence to any. Not only must a constant 
system of activity be established, but peace 
must be preserved, or happiness will be de- 
stroyed. Not only must elegance be called 
in, to adorn and beautify the whole, but strict 
integrity must be maintained by the minutest 
calculation as to lawful means, and self, and 
self-gratification, must be made the yielding 
point in every disputed case. Not only must 
an appearance of outward order and comfort 
be kept up, but around every domestic scene 
there must be a strong wall of confidence, 
which no internal suspicion can undermine, 
no external enemy break through. 


j 


Good household management conducted 
on this plan, is indeed a science well worthy of 
attention. It comprises so much, as to Invest 
it with an air of difficulty on the first view ; 
but no woman can reasonably complain of 
incapability, because nature has endowed the 
sex with perceptions So lively and acute, that 
where benevolence is the impulse, and prin- 
ciple the foundation upon which they act, 
experience will soon teach them by what 
means they may best accomplish the end 
they have in view. 

They will soon learn by experience, that 
selfishness produces selfishness, that indo- 
lence increases with every hour of indul- 
gence, that what is left undone because it is 
difficult to-day, will be doubly difficult to- 
morrow ; that kindness and compassion, to 
answer any desirable end, must one be prac- 
ticable, the other delicate, in its nature; that 
affection must be kept alive by ministering to 
its necessities; and, above all, that religion 
must be recommended by consistency of 
character and conduct. 

It is the strong evidence of truths like 
these, wrought out of their daily experience, 
and forced upon them as principles of action, 
which renders the women of England what 
they are, or rather were, and which fits them 
for becoming able instruments in the promo- 
tion of public and private geod ; for all must 
allow, that it is to the indefatigable exertions 
and faithful labors of women of this class, 
that England chiefly owes the support of 
some of her noblest and most benevolent in- 
stitutions; while it is to their unobtrusive 
and untiring efforts, that the unfortunate and 
afflicted often are indebted for the only sym- 
pathy—the only kind attention that ever 
reaches their obscure abodes, or diffuses 
cheerfulness and comfort through the soli- 
tary chambers of suffering and sickness—the 
only aid that relieves the victims of penury 
and want—the only consolation that ever 
visits the desolate and degraded in their 
wretchedness and despair. 

I acknowledge there are noble instances in 
the annals of English history, and perhaps 
never more than at the present day, of 


women of the highest rank devoting their 
time and their property to objects of benevo- 
lence; but from the very nature of their 
early habits and domestic circumstances, 
they are upon the whole less fitted for prac- 
tical usefulness, than those who move within 
a lower sphere. I am also fully sensible of 
the charities which abound*among the poor ; 


actual merit .of the magnificent bestowments 
of those who know not’one comfort the less, 
with that of the poor man’s offering, and the 
widow’s mite. Still my opinion remains the 
/same, that in the situation of the middle 
class of women in England, are combined 
advantages in the formation of character, to 
which they owe much of their distinction, 
and their country much of her moral worth. 

The true English woman, accustomed to 
bear about with her her energies for daily 
use, her affections for daily happiness, and 
her delicate perceptions for hourly aids in the 
discovery of what is best to do or to leave 
undone, by this means obtains an insight into 
human nature, a power of adaptation, and a 
readiness of application of the right means to 
the desired end, which not only render her 
the most valuable friend, but the most de- 
lightful of fireside companions, because she 
is thus enabled to point the plainest moral, 
and adorn the simplest tale, with all those 
freshly-formed ideas which arise out of actual 
experience and the contemplation of unvar- 
nished truth. . 

Among their other characteristics, the wo- 
men of England are freely spoken of as ple- 
beian in their manners, and cold in their 
affections; but their unpolished and occa- 
sionally embarrassed manner, as frequently 
conceals a delicacy that imparts the most. re- 
fined and elevated sentiment to their familiar 
acts of duty and regard; and those who 
know them best are compelled to acknow- 
ledge that all the noblest passions, the deep- 
est feelings, and the highest aspirations of 
humanity, may be found within the brooding 
quiet of an English woman’s heart. 

There are flowers that burst upon us, and 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


and often have I been led to compare the . 


startle the eye with the splendor of their | of creation, and supply the intelligent mind 


ee 


11 


beauty ; we gaze until we are dazzled, and 
then turn away, remembering nothing but 
their gorgeous hues. There are others that 
refresh the traveller by the sweetness they 
diffuse—but he has to search for the source 
of his delight. He finds it imbedded among 
green leaves ; it may be less lovely than he 
had anticipated, in its form and color, but oh, 
how welcome is the memory of that flower, 
when the evening breeze is again made fra- 
grant with its perfume ! 

It is thus that the unpretending virtues of | 
the female character force themselves upon || 
our regard, so that the woman herse/f is 1 
nothing in comparison with her attributes, 
and we remember less the celebrated belle, 
than her who made us happy. 

Nor is it by their frequent and faithful ser- 
vices alone, that English women are distin- 
guished. The greater proportion of them 
were diligent-and thoughtful readers. It was 
not with them a point of importance to de- 
vour every book that was written as soon as 
it came out. They were satisfied to single 
out the best, and, making themselves familiar 
with every page, conversed with the writer 
as with a friend, and felt that with minds su- 
perior, but yet congenial to their own, they 
could make friends indeed. In this manner 
their solitude was cheered, their hours of la- 
bor sweetened, and their conversation ren- 
dered at once piquant and instructive. This 
was preserved from the technicalities of 
common-place by the peculiar nature of their 
social and mental habits. They were accus- 
tomed to think for themselves ; and, deprived 
in some measure of access to what might be 
esteemed the highest authorities in matters 
of sentiment and taste, they drew their con- 
clusions from reasoning, and their reasoning 
from actual observation. It is true, their 
sphere of observation was microscopic, com- 
pared with that of the individual who enjoys 
the means of travelling from court to court, 
and of mixing with the polished society of 
every nation; but an acute vision directed 
to immediate objects, whatever they may be, 
will often discover as much of the wonders 


12 


SEO TD 00 UC a 


with food for reflection as valuable, as that 
which is the result of a widely extended 
view, where the objects, though more nu- 
merous, are consequently less distinct. 

Thus the domestic woman, moving in a 
comparatively limited circle, is not necessari- 
ly confined to a limited number of ideas, but 
can often expatiate upon subjects of mere 
local interest, with a vigor of intellect, a 
freshness of feeling, and a liveliness of fancy, 
which create, in the mind of the uninitiated 
stranger, a perfect longing to be admitted 
into the home associations from whence are 
derived such a world of amusement, and so 
unfailing a relief from the severer duties of 
life. 

It is not from the acquisition of ideas, but 
from the application of them, that conversa- 
tion derives its greatest charm. Thus an 
exceedingly well-informed talker may be in- 
describably tedious ; while one who is com- 
paratively ignorant, as regards mere facts, 
having brought to bear, upon every subject 
contemplated, a lively imagination combined 
with a sound judgment, and a memory 
stored, not only with dates and_ historical 
events, but with strong and clear impressions 
of familiar things, may rivet the attention of 
his hearers, and startle them, for the time, 
into a distinctness of impression which im- 
parts a degree of delightful complacency 
both to his hearers, and to the entertainer 
himself. 

In the exercise of this kind of tact, the 
women of England, when they can be in- 
duced to cast off their shyness and reserve, 
are peculiarly excellent, and there is conse- 
quently an originality in their humor, a firm- 
hess in their reasoning, and a tone of delicacy 
in their perceptions, scarcely to be found else- 
where in the same degree, and combined in 
the same manner ; nor should it ever be for- 
gotten, in speaking of their peculiar merits, 
that the freshness and the charm of their 
conversation is reserved for their own fire- 
sides—for moments, when the wearied frame 
is most in need of exhilaration, when the 
mind is thrown upon its own resources for 
the restoration of its exhausted powers, and 


when home associations and home affections 
are the balm which the wounded spirit 
needs. 

But above all other characteristics of the 
women of England, the strong moral feeling 
pervading even their most trifling and familiar 
actions, ought to be mentioned as most con- 
ducive to the maintenance of that high place 
which they so justly claim in the society of 
their native land. The apparent coldness 
and reserve of English women ought only to 
be regarded as a means adopted for the pres- 
ervation of their purity of mind,—an evil, if 
you choose to call it so, but an evil of so mild 
a nature, in comparison with that which it 
wards off, that it may with truth be said to 
“lean to virtue’s side.” 

I have said before, that the sphere of a 
domestic woman’s observation is microscopic. 
She is therefore sensible of defects within 
that sphere, which, to a more extended vision, 
would be imperceptible. Ifshe looked abroad 
for her happiness, she would be less disturb- 
ed by any falling off at home. If her interest 
and. her energies were diffused throx 
wider range, she would be less alive to the 
minuter claims upon her attention. It is pos- 
sible she may sometimes attach too much 
importance to the minutie of her own domes- 
tic world, especially when her mind is imper- 
fectly cultivated and informed: but, on the 
other hand, there arises, from the same cause, 
a scrupulous exactness, a studious cbser- 
vance of the means of happiness, a delicacy 
of perception, a purity of mind, and a digni- 
fied correctness of manner, for which the 
women of England are unrivalled by those of 
any other nation. 

By a certain class of individuals, their gen- 
eral conduct may possibly be regarded as too 
prudish to be strictly in keeping with enlarged 
and liberal views of human life. These are 
such as object to find the strict principles of 
female action carried out towards themselves. 
But let every man who disputes the right 
foundation of this system of conduct, imagine 
in the place of the woman whose retiring shy- 
ness provokes his contempt, his sister or his 
friend: and, while he substitutes another be- 


' CHARACTERISTICS O | 


THE WOMEN 


ing, similarly constituted, for himself, he will 
immediately perceive that the boundary-line 
of safety, beyond which no true friend of wo- 
man ever tempted her to pass, is drawn many 
degrees within that. which he had marked 
out for his own intercourse with the female 
sex. Nor is it in the small and separate de- 
viations from this strict line of propriety, that 
any great degree of culpability exists. Hach 
individual act may be simple in itself, and 
almost too insignificant for remark ; it is habit 
that stamps the character, and custom, that 
renders common. Who then can guard too 
scrupulously against the first opening, and 
almost imperceptible change of manners, by 
which the whole aspect of domestic life would 
be altered? And who would not rather that 
English women should be guarded by a wall 
of scruples, than allowed to degenerate into 
less worthy and less efficient supporférs of 
their country’s moral worth ? 

Were it only in their intercourse with mix- 
ed society that English women were distin- 
euished by this strict regard to the proprieties 
of life, it might with some justice fall under 
the ban of prudery ; but, happily for them, it 
extends to every sphere of action in which 
they move, discountenancing vice in every 
form, and investing social duty with that 
true moral dignity which it ought ever to pos- 
Sess. 

I am not ignorant that this can only be con- 
sistently carried out under the influence of 
personal religion. I must, therefore, be un- 
derstood to speak with limitations, and as 
comparing my own countrywomen with those 
of other nations—as acknowledging melan- 
choly exceptions—and not only fervently de- 
siring that every one professed a religion 
capable of leading them in a more excellent 
way, but that all who do profess that religion 
were studiously careful in these minor points. 
Still I do believe that the women of England 
are not surpassed by those of any other coun- 
try for their clear perception of the right and 
the wrong of common and familiar things, for 
their reference to principle in the ordinary 
affairs of life, and for their united maintenance 


ee nT 


of that social order, sound integrity, and do-. 


OF ENGLAND. 13 


mestic peace, which constitute the foundation | 
of all thatis most valuable in the society of 
our native land. 

Much as Ihave said of the influence of the 
domestic habits of my countrywomen, it is, 
after all, to the prevalence of religious instruc- 
tion, and the operation of religious principle 
upon the heart, that the consistent mainte- 
nance of their high tone of moral character is 
to be attributed. Among families in the mid- 
dle class of society of this country, those who 
live without regard to religion are exceptions 
to the general rule; while the great propor- 
tion of individuals thus circumstanced are not 
only accustomed to give their time and atten- 
tion to religious observances, but, there is 
every reason to believe, are materially affect- 
ed in their lives and conduct by the operation 
of Christian principles upon their own minds. 
Women are said to be more easily brought 
under this influence than men; and we con- 
sequently see, in places of public worship, and 
on all occasions in which a religious object is 
the motive for exertion, a greater proportion 

*of women than ofmen. The same proportion 
may possibly be observed in places of amuse- 
ment, and where objects less desirable claim 
the attention of the public ; but this ought not 
to render us insensible to the high privileges 
of our favored country, where there is so 
much to interest, to please, and to instruct, in 
what is connected with the highest and holiest 
uses to which we can devote the talents com- 
mitted to our trust. 


EE, lS LLL ELE ONO LD 


CHAPTER II. 


INFLUENCE OF THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


Ir might form a subject of interesting in- 
quiry, how far the manifold advantages pos- 
sessed by England as a country, derive their 
origin remotely from the cause already descri- 
bed; but the immediate object of the present 
work is to show how intimate is the connection 
which-exists between the women of England, 

-and the moral character maintained by their 


i4 


INFLUENCE, OF 


Bee ene ee eee eee en ce er TCT Cl ER AER cae). «| Ll ee 


country in the scale of nations. For a woman 
to undertake such a task, may at first sight 
appear like an act of presumption ; yet when 
it is considered that the appropriate business 
of men is to direct, and expatiate upon those 
expansive and important measures for which 
their capabilities are more peculiarly adapted, 
and that to women belongs the minute and 
particular observance of all those trifles which 
fill up the sum of. human happiness or misery, 
it may surely be deemed pardonable for a 
woman to solicit the serious attention of her 
own sex, while she endeavors to prove that 
it is the minor morals of domesticlife which 
give the tone to English character, and that 
over this sphere of duty it is her peculiar proy- 
ince to preside. 

Aware that the word preside, used as it is 
here, may produce a startling effect upon the 
ear of man, I must endeavor to bespeak his 
forbearance, by assuring him, that the highest 
aim of the writer does not extend beyond the 
act of warning the women of England back 
to their domestic duties, in order that they 
may become better wives, more useful daugh-* 
ters and mothers, who by their examples shall 
bequeath a rich inheritance to those who fol- 
low in their steps. 

On the other hand, I am equally aware 
that a work such as I am proposing to myself 
must be liable to the condemnation of all mod- 


ern young ladies, as a homely, uninteresting 


book, and wholly unsuited to the present en- 
lightened times. I must therefore endeavor 
also to conciliate their good-will, by assuring 
them, that all which is must lovely, poetical, 
and interesting, nay, even heroic in women, 
derives its existence from the source I am 
now about to open to their view, with all the 
ability lam able to command :—and would 
it were a hundred-fold, for their sakes! 

The kind of encouragement I would hold 
out to them is, however, of a nature so wide- 
ly different from the compliments to which 
they are too much accustomed, that I feel 
the difficulty existing in the present day, of 
stimulating a laudable ambition in the female 
mind, without the aid of public praise or 
printed records of the actual product of their 


meritorious exertions. The sphere of wo- 
man’s happiest and most beneficial influence 
is a domestic one, but it is not easy to award 
even to her quiet and unobtrusive virtues 
that meed of approbation which they really 
deserve, without exciting a desire to forsake 
the homely household duties of the family 
circle to practise such as are more conspic- 
uous, and consequently mote productive of 
an immediate harvest of applause. 

I say this with all kindness, and I desire 
to say it with all gentleness, to the young, 
the amiable, and the—vain; at the same 
time that my perception of the temptation to 
which they are exposed, enchances my value 
for the principle that is able to withstand it, 
and increases my admiration of those noble- 
minded women who are able to carry forward, 
with exemplary patience and perseverance, 
the public offices of benevolence, without 
sacrificing their home duties, and who thus 
prove to the world, that the perfection of 
female character is a combination of private 
and public virtue-—of domestic charity, and 
zeal for the temporal and eternal happiness 
of the whole human race. 

No one can be further than the writer of 
these pages from wishing to point out as ob- 
jects of laudable emulation those domestic 
drudges, who, because of some affinity be- 
tween culinary operations, and the natural 
tone and character of their own minds. prefer 
the kitchen to the drawing-room,—of their 
own free choice, employ their whole lives in 
the constant bustle of providing for mere 
animal appetite, and waste their ingenuity in 
the creation of new wants and wishes, which 
all their faculties again are taxed to supply. 
This class of individuals have, by a sad mis- 
take in our nomenclature, been called useful, 
and hence, in some degree, may arise the 
unpopular reception which. this valuable 
word is apt to meet with in female society. 

It does not require much consideration to 
perceive that these are not the women to 
give a high moral tone to the national char- 
acter of England; yet so entirely do human 
actions derive their dignity or their meanness 
from the motives by which they are prompted, 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


15 


| that it is no violation of truth to say, the 
most servile drudgery may be ennobled by 
the self-sacrifice, the patience, the cheerful 
‘submission to duty, with which it is perform- 
ed. Thus a high-minded and _ intellectual 
woman is never more truly great than when 
willingly and judiciously performing kind of- 
fices for the sick; and much as may be said, 


and said j—~ly in nraise of the public virtues 
of women, the voice Of Nausea ic ca pawerful 


in every human heart, that, could the ques- 
tion of superiority on these two points be 
universally proposed, a response would be 
heard throughout the world, in favor of wo- 
man in her private and domestic character. 

Nor would the higher and more expansive 
powers of usefulness with which women are 
endowed, suffer from want of exercise, did 
they devote themselves assiduously to their 
domestic duties. I am rather inclined to 
think they would receive additional vigor 
from the healthy tone of their own minds, 
and the leisure and liberty afforded by the 
systematic regularity of their household af- 
fairs. ‘Time would never hang heavily on 
their hands, but each moment being hus- 
banded with care, and every agent acting 
under their influence being properly chosen 
and instructed, they would find ample op- 
portunity to go forth on errands of mercy, 
secure that in their absence the machinery 
they had set in motion would ‘still continue 
to work, and to work well. 

But if, on the other hand, all was confu- 
sion and neglect at home—filial appeals un- 
answered—domestic comforts uncalculated— 
husbands, sons, and brothers referred to ser- 
vants for all the little offices of social kind- 
ness, in order that the ladies of the family 
might hurry away at the appointed time to 
some committee-room, scientific lecture, or 
public assembly: however laudable the ob- 
ject for which they met, there would be suf- 
ficient cause why their cheeks should be 
mantled with a blush of burning shame, when 
they heard the women of England and their 


virtues spoken of in that high tone of appro- ’ 


batio1 and applause, which those who aspire 
only to be about their Master’s business will 


feel little pleasure in listening to, and which 
those whose charity has not begun at home, 
ought never to appropriate to themselves. 

It is a widely mistaken notion to suppose 
that the sphere of usefulness recommended 
here, is a humiliating and degrading one. As 
if the earth that fosters and nourishes in its 
lovely bosom the roots of all the plants and 


| trees which ornament the garden of the world, 


feeding them from her secret storehouse with 
supplies that never fail, were less important, 
in the economy of vegetation, than the sun 
that brings to light their verdure and their 
flowers, or the genial atmosphere that per- 
fects their growth, and diffuses their perfume 
abroad upon the earth. To carry out the 
simile still further, it is but just to give the 
preference to that element which, in the ab- 
sence of all other favoring circumstances, 
withholds not its support; but when the sun 
is shrouded, and the showers forget to fall, 
and blighting winds go forth, and the hand 
of culture is withdrawn, still opens out its 
hidden fountains, and yields up its resources, 
to invigorate, to cherish, and sustain. 

It would be an easy and a grateful task, 
thus, by metaphor and illustration, to prove 
the various excellences and amiable peculi- 
arities of women, did not the utility of the 


present work demand a more minute and | 


homely detail of that which constitutes her 
practical and individual duty. It is too much 
the custom with writers, to speak in these 
general terms of the loveliness of the female 
character ; as if woman were some fragrant 
flower, created only to bloom, and exhale in 
sweets; when perhaps these very writers 
are themselves most strict in requiring that 
the domestic drudgery of their own house- 
holds should each day be faithfully filled up. 
How much more generous, just, and noble 
would it be to deal fairly by woman in these 
matters, and to tell her that to be individually, 
what she is praised for being in general, it is 
necessary for her to lay aside all her natural 
caprice, her love of self-indulgence, her vani- 
ty, her indolence—in short, her very se//—and 
assuming a new nature, Which nothing less 
than watchfulness and prayer can enable her 


essai IIR oan ee 


16 


INFLUENCE OF 


constantly to maintain, to spend her mental 
and moral capabilities in devising means for 
promoting the happiness of others, while her 
own derives a remote and secondary exist- 
ence from theirs. 

If an admiration almost unbounded for the 
perfection of female character, with a sisterly 
participation in all the errors and weaknesses 
to which she is liable, and a profound sympa- 
thy with all that she is necessarily compelled 
to feel and suffer, are qualifications for the 
task I have undertaken, these certainly are 
points on which I yield to none ; but at the 
same time that I do my feeble best, I must 
deeply regret that so few are the voices lifted 
up in her defence against the dangerous in- 
fluence of popular applause, and the still more 
dangerous tendency of modern habits, and 
modern education. Perhaps it is not to be 
expected that those who write most powerful- 
ly, should most clearly perceive the influence 
of the one, or the tendency of the other ; be- 

| cause the very strength and consistency of 
their own minds must in some measure 
exempt them from participation in either. 
While, therefore, in the art of reasoning, a 
writer like myself must be painfully sensible 
of her own deficiency, in sympathy of feeling, 
she is perhaps the better qualified to address 
the weakest of her sex. 

With such, it is a favorite plea, brought for- 
ward in extenuation of their own uselessness, 
that they have no influence—that they are 
not leading women—that society takes no 
note of them ; forgetting, while they shelter 
themselves beneath these indolent excuses, 
| that the very feather on the stream may 
serve to warn the doubtful mariner of the rap- 
id and fatal current by which his bark might 
be hurried to destruction. It ‘is, moreover, 
from among this class that wives are more 
frequently chosen; for there is a peculiarity 
inmen—lI would fain call it benevolence—which 
inclines them to offer the benefit of their pro- 
| tection to the most helpless and dependant of 
| the female sex ; and therefore it is upon this 
class that the duty of training up the young 
most frequently devolves; not certainly up- 
on the naturally imbecile, but upon the uncal- 


ne 


“leading women—they are in society but as 


or the blessing of that bosom, according to 


culating creatures whose non-exercise of their 
own mental and moral faculties renders them 
not only willing to be led through the experi- 
ence of life, but thankful to be relieved from 
the responsibility of thinking and acting for 
themselves. 

It is an important consideration, that from 
such women as these, myriads of immorta! 


beings derive that early bi#= ~¢ cuaracter, 
which undox Dewvidence decides their fate, 


not only in this world, but in the world to 
come. And yet they flutter on, and say they 
have no influence—they do not aspire to be 


grains of sand on the sea-shore. Would 
they but pause one moment to ask how will 
this plea avail them, when as daughters with- 
out gratitude, friends without good faith, wives 
without consideration, and mothers without 
piety, they stand before the bar of judgment, to 
render an account of the talents committed to 
their trust!) Have they not parents, to whom 
they might study to repay the debt of care 
and kindness accumulated in their childhood ? 
—perhaps to whom they might overpay this il 
debt, by assisting to remove such obstacles as 
apparently intercept the line of duty, and by 
endeavoring to alleviate the perplexing cares 
which too often obscure the path of life? 
Have they not their young friendships, for 
those sunny hours when the heart expands 
itself in the genial atmosphere of mutual love, 
and shrinks not from revealing its very weak- 
nesses and errors; so that a faithful hand has 
but to touch its tender chords, and conscience 
is awakened, and then instruction may be 
poured in, and medicine may be administered, 
and the messenger of peace, with healing on 
his wings, may be invited to come in, and make 
that heart his home? Have not they known 
the secrets of some faithful bosom laid bare 
before them ina deeper and yet more confi- 
ding attachment, when, however insignificant 
they might be to the world in general, they 
held an influence almost unbounded over one 
human being, and could pour in, for the bane 


the fountain from whence their own was sup- 
plied, either draughts of bitterness or floods 


oflight? Have they not bound themselves by 
a sacred and enduring bond, to be to one fel- 
low-traveller along the path of life, a compan- 
ion on his journey, and, as far as ability might 
be granted them, a guide and a help in the 
doubts and the difficulties ofhis way ? Under 
these urgent and serious responsibilities, have 
they not been appealed to, both in words and 
in looks, and in the silent language of the 
heart, for that promised help? And how has 
the appeal been answered? Above all, have 
they not, many of them, had the feeble steps 
of infancy committed to their care—the pure 
unsullied page of childhood presented to 
them for its first and most durable inscrip- 
tion ?—and what have they written there ? 
It is vain to»plead their inability, and say they 
knew not what to write, and therefore. left 


_the tablet untouched, or sent away the vacant 


page to be filled up by other hands. Time 
will prove to them they have written, if not 
by any direct instrumentality, by their exam- 
ple, their conversation, and the natural influ- 
ence ofmind on mind. Experience will prove 
tv them they have written; and the tran- 
script of what they have written, will be treas- 
ured up, either for or against them, among 


the awful records of eternity. 
It is therefore not only false in reasoning 


but wrong in principle, for women to seis 
as they not unfrequently do with a degree of 
puerile satisfaction, that they have no influ- 
ence. An influence fraught either with good 
or evil, they must have ; and though the one 
may be above their ambition, and the other 
beyond their fears, by neglecting to obtain an 
influence which shall be beneficial to society, 
they necessarily assume a bad one: just in 
the same proportion as their selfishness, in- 
dolence, or vacuity of mind, render them in 
youth an easy prey to every species of unami- 
able temper, in middle age the melancholy 
victims of mental disease, and, long before the 
curtain of death conceals their follies from the 
world, a burden and a bane to society at 
large. 

A superficial observer might rank with this 
class many of those exemplary women, who 
pass to and fro upon the earth with noiseless 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


step, whose names are never heard, and eo. || 
even in society, if they attempt to speak, have 
scarcely the ability to command an attentive | 
audience. Yet among this unpretending 
class are found striking and noble instances 
of women, who, apparently feeble and insig- 
nificant, when called into action by pressing 
and peculiar circumstances, can accomplish 
great and glorious purposes, supported and 
carried forward by that most valuable of all 
faculties—moral power. And just in propor- 
tion as women cultivate this faculty (under 
the blessing of Heaven) indepehdently of all 
personal attractions, and unaccompanied by 
any high attainments in learning or art, is 
their influence. over their fellow-creatures, 
and consequently their power of doing good. 

It is not to be presumed that women pos- 
sess more moral power than men ; but happi- 
ly for them, such are their early impressions, 
associations, and general position in the world, 
that their moral feelings are less liable to be 
impaired by the pecuniary objects which too 
often constitute the chief end of man, and 
which, even under the limitations of better 
principle, necessarily engage a large portion of 
his thoughts. ‘There are many humble-mind- 
ed women, not remarkable for any particular | 
intellectual endowments, who yet possess so 
clear a sense of the right and wrong of individ- 
al actions, as to be of essential service in aiding 
the judgments of their husbands, brothers, or 
sons, in those intricate affairs in which it is 
sometimes difficult to dissever worldly wis- 
dom from religious duty. 

To men belongs the potent (I had almost 
said the omnipotent) consideration of worldly 
aggrandizement ; and it is constantly mis- 
leading their steps, closing their ears against 
the voice of conscience, and beguiling them 
with the promise of peace, where peace was 
never found. Long before the boy has learn- 
ed to exult in the dignity of the man, his 
mind has become familiarized to the habit 
of investing with supreme importance, all 
considerations relating to the acquisition 
wealth. He hears on the Sabbath, and on 
stated occasions, when men meet for that 
especial purpose, of a God to be worshipped, 


ST a 


“ae 


i| a Saviour to be trusted in, and a holy law to 
be observed; but he sees before him, and 
every day and every hour, a strife, which is 
nothing less than deadly to the highest im- 
pulses of the soul, after another God—the 
Mammon of unrighteousness—the Moloch of 
this world; and believing rather what men 
do, than what they preach, he learns too 
soon to mingle with the living mass, and to 
unite his labors with theirs. To unite? Alas! 
there is no union in the great field of action 
in which he is engaged; but envy, and ha- 
tred, and opposition, to the close of the day,— 
every man’s hand against his brother, and 
each struggling to exalt himself, not merely 
by trampling upon his fallen foe, but by 
usurping the place of his weaker brother, 


who faints by his side, from not having | 


brought an equal portion of strength into the 
conflict, and who is consequently borne down 
by numbers, hurried over, and forgotten. 
This may be an extreme, but it is scarcely 
an exaggerated picture of the engagements 
of men of business in the present day. And 


surely they now need more than ever all the - 


assistance which Providence has kindly pro- 
vided, to win them away from this warfare, 
to remind them that they are hastening on 
towards a world into which none of the 
treasures they are amassing can be admit- 
ted; and, next to those holier influences 
which operate through the medium of reve- 
lation, or through the mysterious instrumen- 
tality of Divine love, I have little hesitation 
in saying, that the society of woman, in her 
highest moral capacity, is best calculated to 
effect this purpose. 
How often has man returned to his home 
with a mind confused by the many voices, 
which in the mart, the exchange, or the public 
assembly, have addressed themselves to his 
inborn selfishness or his worldly pride ; and 
while his integrity was shaken, and his reso- 
lution gave way beneath the pressure of ap- 
parent necessity, or the insidious pretences of 
expediency, he has stood corrected before the 
|) clear eye of woman, as it looked directly to 
the naked truth, and detected the lurking evil 
of the specious act he was about to commit. 


INFLUENCE OF 


Nay, so potent may have become this secret 
influence, that he may have borne it about 
with him like a kind of second conscience, 
for mental reference, and spiritual counsel, 
in moments of trial; and when the snares of 
the world were around him, and temptations 
from within and without have bribed over 
the witness in his own bosom, he has thought 
of the humble monitress who sat alone, 
guarding the fireside comforts of his distant 
home; and the remembrance of her charac- 


the clouds before his mental vision, and sent 
him back to that beloved home, a wiser and 
a better man. 

The women of England, possessing the 
grand privilege of being better instructed 
than those of any other country in the minu- 
tie of domestic comfort, have obtained a 
degree of importance in society far beyond 
what their unobtrusive virtues would appear 
to claim. The long-established customs of 
their country, have placed in their hands the 
high and holy duty of cherishing and pro- 
tecting the minor morals of life, from whence 
springs all that is elevated in purpose, and 
glorious in action. The sphere of their direct 
personal influence is central, and consequent- 
ly small; but its extreme operations are as 
widely extended as the range of human feel- 
ing. They may be less striking in society 
than some of the women of other countries, 
and may feel themselves, on brilliant and 
stirring occasions, as simple, rude, and un- 
sophisticated in the popular science of ex- 
citement; but as far as the noble daring of 
Britain has sent forth her adventurous sons, 
and that is to every point of danger on the 
habitable globe, they have borne along with 
them a generosity, a disinterestedness, and a 
moral courage, derived in no small measure 
from the female influence of their native 
country. 

It is a fact well worthy of our most serious 
attention, and one which bears: immediately 
upon the subject under consideration, that 
the present state of our national affairs is 
such as to indicate that the influence of wo- 
man in counteracting the growing evils of 


—- eens = e - 
ee 


i 
ter, clothed in moral beauty, has scattered 


i 


LOS TET, 


Sa ae 


THE WOMEN 


society is about to be more needed than 
| ever. 
|. In our imperfect state of being, we seldom 
attain any great 01 national good without its 
accompaniment of evil; and every improve- 
ment proposed for the general weal, has, up- 
on some individual, or some class of individ- 
uals, an effect which it requires a fresh exer- 
cise of energy and principle to guard against. 
Thus the great facilities of communication, 
not only throughout our own country, but 
with distant parts of the world, are rousing 
men of every description to tenfold exertion 
in the field of competition in which they are 
engaged ; so that their whole being is becom- 
| ing swallowed up in efforts and calculations 
| relating to their pecuniary success. If to 
| grow tardy or indifferent in the race were 
only to lose the goal, many would be glad 
to pause; but such is the nature of com- 
merce and trade as at present carried on in 
his country, that to slacken in exertion, is 
altogether to fail. I would fain hope and be- 
lieve of my countrymen, that many of the 
rational and enlightened would now be wil- 
ling to reap smaller gains, if by so doing they 
could enjoy more leisure. But a business 
only half attended to, soon ceases to be a 
business at all; and the man of enlightened 
understanding, who neglects his, for the sake 
of hours of leisure, must be content to spend 
them in the debtor’s department of a jail. 
Thus, it is not with single individuals that 
the blame can be made to rest. The fault is 
in the system; and : happy will it be for 
thousands of immortal souls, when this sys- 
tem shall correct itself: In the mean time, 
_may it not be said to be the especial duty of 
Women to look around them, and see in what 
way they can counteract this evil, by calling 
hack the attention of man to those sunnier 
Spots in his existence, by which the growth 


of his moral feelings have been encouraged, 
and his heart improved 1 


We cannot believe of the fathers who 
watched over our childhood, of the husbands 
who shared our intellectual pursuits, of the 
brothers who went hand in hand with us in 

our love of poetry and nature, that they are 


OF ENGLAND. 


RR RR RR AR 


19 


all gone over to the side of mammon, that 
there does not lurk in some corner of their 
hearts a secret longing to return; yet every 
morning brings the same hurried and indif- 
ferent parting, every evening the same jaded, 
speechless, welcomeless return—until we al- 
most fail to recognise the man,.in the ma- 
chine. 

English homes have been much boasted of 
by English people, both at home and abroad. 
What would a foreigner think of those neat, 
and sometimes elegant residences, which 
form a circle of comparative gentility around 
our cities and our trading towns? What 


‘would he think, when told that the fathers of 


those families have not time to see their chil- 
dren except on the Sabbath-day? and that 
the mothers, impatient, and anxious to con- 
sult them about some of their domestic plans, 
have to wait, perhaps for days, before they can 
find them for five minutes disengaged, either 
from actual exertion, or from that sleep 
which necessarily steals upon them immedi- 
ately after the over-excitement of the day 
has permitted them a moment of repose. 
And these are rational, intellectual, ac- 
countable, and immortal beings, undergoing 
a course of discipline by which they are to 
be fitted for eternal existence! What wo- 
man can look on without asking—*Is there 
nothing Ican do, to call them back ?”” Surely 
there is; but it never can be done by the 
cultivation of those faculties which contribute 
only to selfish gratification. Since her so- 
ciety is shared for so short a time, she must 
endeavor to make those moments more rich 
in blessing; and since her influence is limited 
to so small a range of immediate operation, 
it should be rendered so potent as to mingle 
with the whole existence of those she loves: 
Will an increase of intellectual attainments, 
or a higher style of accomplishments, effect 
this purpose? Will the common-place fri- 
volities of morning calls, or an interminable 
range of superficial reading, enable them to 
assist their brothers, their husbands, or their 
sons in becoming happier and better men? 
No: let the aspect of society be what it 
may, man is a social being, and beneath the 


a 
ERIS an <2 


Jo a Sa. 


! 


hard surface he puts on, to fit him for the 
wear and tear of every day, he has a heart 
as true to the kindly affections of our nature, 
as that of woman—as true, though not as 
suddenly awakened to every passing call. 
He has therefore need of all her sisterly ser- 
vices, and, under the pressure of the present 
times, he needs them more than ever, to fos- 
ter in his nature, and establish in his charac- 
ter, that higher tone of feeling without which 
he can enjoy nothing beyond a kind of ani- 
mal existence—but with which, he may 
faithfully pursue the necessary avocations 
of the day, and keep as it were a separate 
soul for his family, his social duty, and his 
God. 

There is another point of consideration by 
which this necessity for a higher degree of 
female influence is greatly increased, and it 
is one which comprises much that is inter- 
esting to those who aspire to be the support- 
ers of their country’s worth. The British 
throne being now graced by a female sove- 
reign, the auspicious promise of whose early 
years seems to form a new era in the annals 
of our nation, and to inspire with brighter 
hopes and firmer confidence the patriot bo- 
soms of her expectant people; it is surely 
not a time for the female part of the commu- 
nity to fall away from the high standard of 
moral excellence, to which they have been 
accustomed to look, in the formation of their 
domestic habits. Rather let them show forth 
the benefits arising from their more enlight- 
ened systems of education, by proving to 


; their youthful sovereign, that whatever plan 


she may think it right to sanction for the 
moral advancement of her subjects, and the 
promotion of their true interests as an intelli- 
gent and happy people, will be welcomed by 
every female heart throughout her realm, 
and faithfully supported in every British 
home by the female influence prevailing 
there. 

It wiil be the business of the writer through 
the whole of the succeeding pages of this 
work, to endeavor to point out, how the wo- 
men of England may render this important 
service, not only to the members of their own 


MODERN EDUCATION OF 


BU et SEY A ON cn HOLT ES EE SU a rarmalieh Nia AIM UNEET INTL TAGHT, WLUTRST MERE EV AAMT MLA CIT CTULTOT TRC SoA), GSA GD Ha a aa 


households, but to the community at large ; 
and if I fail in arousing them to bring, as 
with one mind, their united powers to stem 
the popular torrent now threatening to un- 
dermine the strong foundation of England’s 
moral worth, it will not be for want of earn- 
estness in the cause, but because I am not 
endowed with talent equal to the task. 


CHAPTER III. 
MODERN EDUCATION. 


In writing on the subject of modern edu- 
cation, I cannot help entertaining a fear lest 
some remarks I may in candor feel con- 
strained to make, should be construed into 
disrespect towards that truly praiseworthy 
and laborious portion of the community, em- 
ployed in conducting this education, and 
pursuing, with laudable endeavors, what is 
generally believed to be the best method of 
training up the young women of the present 
day. Such, however, is the real state of my 
own sentiments, that I have long been ac- 
customed to consider this class of individuals 
as not only entitled to the highest pecuniary 
consideration, but equally so to the first 
place in society, to the gratitude of their fel- 
low-creatures, and to the respect of mankind 
in general, who, both as individuals, and as 
a community, are deeply indebted to them || 
for their indefatigable and often ill-requited |} 
services. 

A woman of cultivated understanding and 
correct religious principle, when engaged in 
the responsible task of educating the rising 
generation, in reality fills one of the most re- 
sponsible stations to which a hupdn being |} . 


can aspire; and nothing can mozé clearly in- 
dicate a low state of public orals than the 
vulgar disrespect and parsimonious remune- 
ration with which the agents employed in 


education are sometimes requited. 
It is with what is taught, not with those 


who teach, that I am’ daring enough to find 


fault. It may be that I am taking an unen- 


lightened and prejudiced view of the subject ; 
yet, such is the strong conviction of my own 
mind, that I cannot rest without attempting 
to prove that the present education of the 
women of England docs svt Gt them for 
faithfully performing the duties which de- 
volve upon them immediately after their 
leaving school, and throughout the whole of 
their after lives,—does not convert them from 
helpless children into such characters as all 
women must be, in order to be either esteem- 
ed or admired. 

Nor are their teachers accountable for this. 
It is the fashion of the day—it is the ambition 
of the times, that all people should, as far as 
possible, learn all things of which the human 
intellect takes cognizance ; and what would 
be the consternation of parents whose daugh- 
ter should return home to them from school 
unskilled in modern accomplishments,—to 
| whem her governess should say, “It is true, 


a. 
RRR SE REP RRR 
: 


| 
| 
| 


' 
' 
} 
b 

| 


I have been unable to make your child a 
1 Seer apt either in French or Latin, nor is she 
eae apt at the use of the globes, but she has 
been pre-eminent among my scholars for her 
freedom from selfishness, and she possesses 
a nobility of feeling that will never allow her 
to be the victim of meanness, or the slave of 
grovelling desires.’ 

In order to ascertain what kind of educa- 
tion is most effective in making woman what 
she ought to be, the best method is to inquire 
into the character, station, and peculiar du- 
ties of woman throughout the largest portion 
of her earthly career; and then ask, for what 
she is most valued, admired, and beloved. 

In answer to this, I have little hesitation in 
saying,—for her disinterested kindness. Look 
at all the heroines whether of romance or 
reality—at all the female characters that are 
| held up to universal admiration—at all who 
| have gone down to honored graves, among 
the tears and the lamentations of their sur- 
| vivors. Have these been the learned, the 
accomplished women; the women who could 
| speak many languages, who could solve 
| problems, and elucidate systems of philoso- 
| phy? No: or if they have, they have also 
|) been women who were dignified with the 


THE WOMEN 


OF ENGLAND. 


21 


majesty of moral greatness—women who re- 
gar ded not themselves, their own feebleness, 
or their own susceptibility of pain, but who, 
enduecd with an almust superhuman energy, 
could trample under foot every impediment 
that intervened between them and the accom- 
plishment of some great object upon which 
their hopes were fixed, while that object was 
wholly unconnected with their own personal 
exaltation or enjoyment, and related only to 
some beloved object, whose suffering was 
their sorrow, whose good their gain. 

Woman, with all her accumulation of mi- 
nute disquietudes, her weakness, and her 
sensibility, is but a meager item in the cata- 
logue of humanity ; but roused by a suffi- 
cient motive to forget all these, or, rather, 
continually forgetting them, because she has 
other and nobler thoughts to occupy her 
mind, woman is truly and majestically great. 

Never yet, however, was woman great be- 
cause she had great acquirements; nor can 
she ever be great in herself—personally, and 
without instrumentality—as an object, not an 
agent. 

From the beginning to the end of school 
education, the improvement of se/f, so far as 
relates to intellectual attainments, is made 
the rule and the motive of all that is done. 
Rewards are appointed and portioned out 
for what has been learned, not what has 
been imparted. To gain, is the universal 
order of the establishment; and those who 
have heaped together the greatest sum of 
knowledge are usually regarded as the most 
meritorious. Excellent discourses may be 
delivered by the preceptress upon the Chris- 


tian duties of benevolence and disinterested 


love; but the whole system is one of pure 
selfishness, fed by accumulation, and reward- 
ed by applause. To be at the head of the 
class, to gain the ticket or the prize, are the 
points of universal ambition; and few in- 
dividuals, among the community of aspi- 
rants, are taught to look forward with a ra- 
tional presentiment to that future, when their 
merit will be to give the place of honor to 
others, and their happiness to give it to those 
who are more worthy than themselves. 


\ 


MODERN EDUCATION OF 


such thoughts; for there is a vaire in wo- 
man’s heart too strong for education—a prin- 
ciple which the march of intellect is unable 
to overthrow. 

Retiring from the emulous throng, we some- 
times find a little, despised, neglected girl, who 
has won no prize, obtained no smile of appro- 
bation from her superiors. She isa dull girl, 
who learns slowly, and cannot be taught so 
as to keep up with the rest without incalcu- 


lable pains. The fact is, she has no great 


22 
We will not assert that no one entertains 
wish to keep up with them: she only wants 
to be loved and trusted by her teachers ; and 
oh! how does she wish, with tears, and al- 
most with prayers, that they would love and 
trust her, and give her credit for doing her 


best. Beyond this she is indifferent ; she has 
| 
} 


Ce NE 


no motive but that of pleasing others, for try- 
ing to be clever; and she is quite satisfied 
that her friend, the most ambitious girl in the 
school, should obtain all the honors without 
her competition. Indeed, she feels as though 
it scarcely would be delicate, scarcely kind in 
her, to try so much to advance before her 
friend ; and she gently falls back, is reproved 
for her neglect, and, finally, despised. 
I knew a girl who was one of the best 
' grammarians in a large school, whose friend 
was peculiarly defective in that particular 
branch of learning. Once every year the 
order of the class was reversed, the girl who 
held the highest place exchanging situations 
with the lowest, and thus affording all an 
equal chance of obtaining honors. ‘The usual 
order of the class was soon restored, except 
that the good grammarian was always ex- 
pected by her friend to whisper in her ear a 
suitable answer to every question proposed, 
and as this girl necessarily retrograded to the 
place to which her own ignorance entitled 
her, her friend felt bound by affection and 
kindness to relieve her distress every time 
the alarming question came to her turn. 
She consequently remained the lowest in the 
class until the time of her leaving the school, 
often subjected to the reproofs of her teach- 
ers, and fully alive to her humiliating situa- 


| tion, but never once turning a deaf ear to 


her friend, or refusing to assist her in her 
difficulties. 

In the schools of the ancients, an act of 
patient disinterestedness like this, would have 


met with oneouragement and reward; in the | 
school where it took place, it was well for 


both parties that it was never known. 

In making these and similar remarks, I 
am aware that I may bring upon myself the 
charge of wishing to exclude from our 
schools all intellectual attainments what- 
ever; for how, it will be asked, can learning 
be acquired without emulation, and without 
rewards for the diligent, and punishments 
for the idle? 

So far, however, from wishing to cast a 
shade of disrespect over such attainments, I 
am decidedly of opinion that no human be- 
ing can know too much, so long as the sphere 
of knowledge does not extend to what is 
positively evil. I am also of opinion that 
there is scarcely any department of art or 
science, still less of mental application, which 
is not calculated to strengthen and improve 
the mind ; but at the same time I regard the 
improvement of the heart of so much greater 
consequence, that if time and opportunity 
should fail for both, I would strenuously 
recommend that women should be sent 
home from school with fewer accomplish- 
ments, and more of the will and the power 
to perform the various duties necessarily de- 
volving upon them. 

Again, I am reminded of the serious and 
important fact, that religion alone can im- 
prove the heart; and to this statement no 
one can yield assent with more reverential 
belief in its truth than myself. I acknow- 
ledge, also, for I know it to be a highly cred- 
itable fact, that a large proportion of the mer- 
itorious individuals who take upon them- 
selves the arduous task of training up the 
young, are conscientiously engaged in giving 
to religious instruction that place which it 
ought unquestionably to hold in every Chris- 
tian school. But I would ask, is instruction 
all that_is wanted for instilling into the minds 
of the rising generation the benign principles 
of Christian faith and practice? . 


iy 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


23 


It is not thought enough to instruct the 
young sculptor in the rules of his art, to 
charge his memory with the names of those 
who have excelled in it, and with the princi- 
ples they have laid down for the guidance of 
others—No: he must work with his own 
hand; and long before that hand, and the 
mind by which it is influenced, have attained 
maturity, he must have learned to mould the 
pliant clay, and have thus become familiar 
with the practice of his art. 

And shall this universally acknowledged 
system of instruction, to which we are in- 
debted for all that is excellent in art and ad- 
mirable in science, be neglected in the educa- 
tion of the young Christian alone? Shall he 
be taught the bare theory of his religion, and 
left to work out its practice as he can? Shall 
he be instructed in what he is to believe, and 
not assisted in doing also the will of his 
heavenly Father ? 

We all know that it is not easy to practise 
even the simplest rule of right, when we 
have not been accustomed to do so: and the 
longer we are before we begin to regulate 
our conduct by the precepts of religion, the 
more difficult it will be to acquire such habits 
as are calculated to adorn and show forth 
the purity and excellence of its principles. 

There is one important difference between 
the acquisition of knowledge, and the acqui- 
sition of good habits, which of itself ought to 
be sufficient to ensure a greater degree of at- 
tention to the latter. When the little pupil 
first begins her education, her mind is a total 
blank, as far as relates to the differe nt branches 
of study into which she is about to be intro- 
duced, and there is cohsequently nothing to 
oppose. She is not prepossessed in favor of 
any false system of arithmetic, grammar, or 
geography, and the ideas presented to her 
on these subjects are consequently willingly 
received, and adopted as her own. 

How different is the moral state of the un- 
instructed child! Selfishness coeval with 
her existence has attained an alarming 
growth ; and all the other passions and pro- 
pensities inherent in her nature, taking their 
natural course, have strengthened with her 


advance towards maturity, and are ready to 
assume an aspect too formidable to afford 
any prospect of their being easily brought 
into subjection. | 

Yet, notwithstanding this difference, the 
whole machinery of education is brought to 
bear upon the intellectual part of her nature, 
and her moral feelings are left to the training 
of the play-ground, where personal influ- 
ence, rather than right feeling, too frequently 
decides her disputes, and places her either 
high or low in the ranks of her companions. 

It is true, she is very seriously and proper- 
ly corrected when convicted of having done 
wrong, and an admirable system of morals is 
promulgated in the school; but the subject I 
would complain of is, that no means have 
yet been adopted for making the practice of 
this system the object of highest importance 
in our schools. No adequate means have 
been adopted for testing the generosity, the 
high-mindedness, the integrity of the chil- 
dren who pursue their education at school, 
until they leave it at the age of sixteen, when 
their moral faculties, either for good or for 
evil, must have attained considerable growth. 

Let us single out from any particular semi- 
nary a child who has been there from the 
years of ten to fifteen, and reckon, if it can 
be reckoned, the pains that have been spent 
in making that child a proficient in Latin. 
Have the same pains been spent in making 
her disinterestedly kind? And yet what 
man is there in existence who would not 
rather his wife should be free from selfish- 
ness, than be able to read Virgil without the 
use of a dictionary. 

There is no reason, however, why both 
these desirable ends should not be aimed at, 
and as the child progresses in self-denial, for- 
bearance, generosity, and disinterested kind- 
ness, it might be her reward to advance in 
the acquisition of languages, or of whatever 
accomplishments it might be thought most 
desirable for her to attain. If Iam told there 


would not be time for all the discipline requi- 
site for the practice of morals, I ask in reply, 
—how much do most young ladies learn at 
school for which they never find any use in 


; 


eee ————S——S———— awa 
ee 


24 


after life, and for which it is not probable, 
from their circumstances, that they ever 
should. Let the hours spent upon music by 
those who have no ear—upon drawing, by 
those who might almost be said to have no 
eye—upon languages, by those who never 
afterwards speak any other than their mother 
tongue—be added together year after year ; 
and an aggregate of wasted time will present 


itself, sufficient to alarm those who are sen-_ 


sible of its value, and of the awful responsi- 
bility of using it aright. 

' It is impossible that the teachers, or even 
the parents themselves, should always know 
the future destiny of the child; but there is 
an appropriate sphere for women to move in, 
frony which those of the middle class in Eng- 
land seldom deviate very widely. This 
sphere has duties and occupations of its 
own, from which no woman can shrink with- 
out culpability and disgrace; and the ques- 
tion is, are women prepared for these duties 
and occupations by what they learn at 
school ? 

For my own part, | know not how educa- 
tion deserves the name, if it does not prepare 
the individual whom it influences for filling 
her appointed station in the best possible 
manner. What, for instance, should we 
think of a school for sailors, in which no- 
thing was taught but the fine arts; or for 
musicians, in which the students were only 
instructed in the theory of sound ? 

With regard to. the women of England, I 
have already ventured to assert that the 
quality for which, above all others, they are 
esteemed and valued, is their disinterested 
kindness. A selfish woman may not im- 
properly be regarded as a monster, especially 
in that sphere of life where there is a con- 
stant demand made upon her services. But 
how are women taught at school to forget 
themselves, and to cultivate that high tone 
of generous feeling to which the world is so 
much indebted for the hope and the joy, the 
peace and the consolation, which the influ- 
ence and companionship of woman is able to 
diffuse throughout its very deserts, visiting, 
as with blessed sunshine, the abodes of the 


MODERN EDUCATION OF 


wretched and the poor, and sharing cheer- 


fully the lot of the afflicted ? 

In what school, or under what system of 
modern education, can it be said that the 
chief aim of the teachers, the object to which 
their laborious exertions are mainly directed, 
is to correct the evil of selfishness in the 
hearts of their pupils? Improved methods 
of charging and surcharging the memory 
are eagerly sought out, and pursued, at any 
cost of time and patience, if not of health 
itself ; but who ever thinks of establishing a 
selfish class among the girls of her establish- 
ment, or of awarding the honors and distinc- 
tions of the school to such as have exhibited 
the most meritorious instances of self-denial 
for the benefit of others 2? 


It may be objected to this plan, that virtue - 


ought to be its own reward, and that honors 


and rewards adjudged to the most meritorious | 


in a moral point of view, would be likely to 
induce a degree of self-complacency wholly 
inconsistent with Christian meekness. I am 
aware that, in our imperfect state, no plan 
can be laid down for the promotion of good, 
with which evil will not be liable to mix. 
I contend for is, that the same system of dis- 
cipline, with the same end in view, should be 
begun and carried on at school, as that to 
which the scholar will necessarily be subject 
ed in after life; and that throughout the 
training of her early years, the same stand- 
ard of merit should be adopted, as she will 
find herself compelled to look up to, when 
released from that training, and sent forth 
into the world to think and act for herself. 
At school it has been the business of every 
day to raise herself above her companions by 
attainments greater than theirs ; in after life 
it will be the business of every day to give 
place to others, to think of their happiness, 
and to make sacrifices of her own to pro- 
mote it. If such acts of self-denial, when 
practised at school, should endanger the 
equanimity of her mind by the approbation 
they obtain, what will they do in the world 
she is about to enter, where the unanimous 
opinion of mankind, both in this and in past 
ages, is in their favor, and where she must 


All | 


ai 


ees eens ee 
—_——_————— 
— 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


20 


perpetually hear woman spoken of in terms 
of the highest commendation, not for her 
learning, but for her disinterested kindness, 
her earnest zeal in promoting the happiness 
of her fellow-creatures, and the patience and 
forbearance with which she studies to miti- 
gate affliction and relieve distress ? ~ 

Would it not be safer, then, to begin at a 
very early age to make the practice of these 
virtues the chief object of their lives, guard- 
ing at the same time against any self-com- 
placency that might attach to the perform- 
ance of them, by keeping always before their 
view higher and nobler instances of virtue in 
others ; and especially by a strict and con- 
stant reference to the utter worthlessness of 
all human merit, in comparison with the 
mercy and forgiveness that must ever impose 
a debt of gratitude upon our own souls? 

Taking into consideration the various ex- 
cellences and peculiarities of woman, I am 
inclined to think that the sphere which of all 
others admits of the highest development of 
her character, is the chamber of sickness ; and 
how frequently and mournfully familiar are 
the scenes in which she is thus called to act 
and feel, let the private history of every fam- 
ily declare. 

There is but a very small proportion of the 
daughters of farmers, manufacturers, and 
trades-people, in England, who are ever call- 
ed upon for their Latin, their Italian, or even 
for their French; but all women in this 
sphere of life are liable to be called upon to 
visit and care for the sick ; and if in the hour 
of weakness and of suffering, they prove to 
be unacquainted with any probable means of 
alleviation, and wholly ignorant of the most 
judicious and suitable mode of offering relief 
and consolation, they are indeed deficient in 
one of the highest attainments in the way of 
usefulness, to which a woman can aspire. 

To obviate the serious difficulties which 
many women experience from this cause, I 
would propose, as a substitute for some 
useless accomplishments, that English girls 
should be made acquainted with the most 
striking phenomena of some of the familiar, 
and frequently recurring maladies to which 


the human frame is liable, with the most ap- 
proved methods of treatment. And by culti- 
vating this knowledge so far as relates to 
general principles, I have little doubt but it 
might be made an interesting and highly use- 
ful branch of education. 

I am far from wishing them to interfere 
with the province of the physician. The 
more they know, the less likely they will be 
to do this. The office of a judicious nurse 
is all] would recommend them to aspire to; 
and to the same department of instruction 
should be added the whole science of that 
delicate and difficult cookery which forms so 
important a part of the attendant’s duty. 


Nor let these observations call forth a smile 


upon the rosy lips that are yet unparched by 
fever, untainted by consumption. Fair read- 
er, there have been those who would have 
given at the moment almost half their world- 
ly wealth, to have been able to provide a pa- 
latable morsel for a beloved sufferer; who 
have met the inquiring eye, that asked for it 
knew not what, and that expressed by its 
anxious look an almost childish longing for 
what they were unable to supply, not because 
the means were denied, but simply because 
they were too ignorant of the nature and 
necessities of illness to form any practical 
idea of what would be most suitable and most 
approved. Perhaps, in their well-meant offi- 
ciousness, they mentioned the only thing 
they were acquainted with, and that was just 
the most repulsive. What then have they 
done? Allowed the faint and feeble sufferer 
to go pining on, wishing it had been her lot 
to fall under the care of any other nurse. 
How invaluable at such a time is the al- 
most endless catalogue of good and suitable 
preparations with which the really clever wo- 
man is supplied, any one of which she is 
able to prepare with her own hands; choos- 
ing, with the skill of the doctor, what is best 
adapted for the occasion, and converting diet 
into medicine of the most agreeable descrip- 
tion, which she brings silently into the sick- 
room without previous mention, and thus 


exhilarates the spirits of the patient by an 


agreeable surprise! 


Se eaten eaten 


SS | 
ee ee RS z 


LO TS Se 


; 
i 


as a hand beloved; and that the most deli- 


26 


MODERN EDUCATION OF 


III 


It is customary with young ladies of the 
present day to think that nurses and hired 
attendants ought to do these things; and 
well and faithfully they sometimes do them, 
ta the shame of those connected by nearer 
ties. But are they ignorant that a hired hand 
can never impart such sweetness to a cordial 


cate and most effectual means of proving 
the strength of their affection, is to choose to 
do, what might by possibility have been ac- 
complished by another? 

When we meet in society with that speech- 
less, inanimate, ignorant, and useless being 
called “a young lady just come from school,” 
it is thought a sufficient apology for all her 
deficiencies, that she has, poor thing! but 
just come home from school. Thus imply- 
ing that nothing in the way of domestic use- 
fulness, social intercourse, or adaptation to 
circumstances, can be expected from her 
until she has had time to learn it. 

If, during the four or five years spent at 
school, she had been establishing herself upon 
the foundation of her future character, and 
learning to practise what would afterwards 
be the business of her life, she would, when 
her education was considered as complete, 
be in the highest possible state of perfection 
which her nature, at that season of life, would 
admit of. This is what she ought to be. I 
need not advert to what she is. The case is 
too pitiful to justify any further description. 
The popular and familiar remark, “ Poor 
thing ! she has just come home from school ; 
what can you expect ?”’ is the best commen- 
tary I can offer. 

There is another point of difference be- 
tween the training of the intellect, and that 
of the moral feelings, of more serious import- 
ance than any we have yet considered. 

We all know that the occupation of teach- 
ing, as it relates to the common branches of 
instruction, is one of such Herculean labor, 
that few persons are found equal to it for any 
protracted length of time; and even with 
such, it is necessary that they should bend 
their minds to it with a determined effort, 
and make each day a renewal of that effort, 


not to be baffled by difficulties, nor defeated 
by want of success. We all know, too, what it 
is to the learned to be dragged on day by day 
through the dull routine of exercises in which 
she feels no particular interest, except what 
arises from getting in advance of her fellows, 
obtaining a prize, or suffering a punishment. 
We all can remember the atmosphere of 
the school-room, so uncongenial to the fresh 
and buoyant spirits of youth—the clatter of 
slates, the dull point of the pencil, and the 
white cloud where the wrong figure, the fig- 
ure that would prove the incorrectness of the 
whole, had so often been rubbed out. ‘T'o 
say nothing of the morning lessons, before the 
dust from the desks and the floor had been 
put in motion, we all can remember the af- 
ternoon sensations with which we took our 
places, perhaps between companions the most 
unloved by us of any in the school; and how, 
while the summer’s sun was shining in 


through the high windows, we pored with ' 


aching head over some dry dull words, that 
would not transmit themselves to the tablet 
of our memories, though repeated with inde- 
fatigable industry, repeated until they seemed 
to have no identity, no distinctness, but were 
mingled with the universal hum and buzz of 
the close, heated room; where the heart, if 
it did not forget itself to stone, at least for- 
got itself to sleep, and lost all power of feel- 
ing any thing but weariness, aud occasional 
pining for relief. Class after class were then 
called up from this hot-bed of intellect. The 
tones of the teacher’s voice, though not al- 
ways the most musical, might easily have 
been pricked down in notes, they were so 
uniform in their cadences of interrogation, 
rejection, and reproof. ‘These, blending with 


the slow, dull answers of the scholars, and 


occasionally the quick guess of one ambitious 
to attain the highest place, all mingled with 
the general monotony, and increased the 
general stupor that weighed down every eye, 
and deadened every pulse. 

There are, unquestionably, quick children, 
who may easily be made fond of learning, if 
judiciously treated ; and it no doubt happens 
to all, that there are portions of their daily 


— 


ert | 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


i | 
duty not absolutely disagreeable; but that 
weariness is the prevalent sensation both with 
the teachers and the taught, is.a fact that few 


will attempt to deny; nor is it a libel upon 
individuals thus engaged, or upon human 
nature in general, that it should be so. We 
are so constituted that we cannot spend all 
our time in the exercise of our intellect, with- 
out absolute pain, especially while young; 
and when, in after life, we rise with exhaust- 
ed patience from three hours of writing or 
reading, we cannot look back with wonder 
that at school we suffered severely from the 
labor of six. 

It is not my province to describe how much 
the bodily constitution is impaired by this in- 
cessant application tostudy. Philanthropical 
means are devised for relieving the young 
student as much as possible, by varying the 
subjects of attention, and allowing short in- 
tervals of bodily exercise: but still the high- 
pressure system goes on; and, with all their 
attainments in the way of learning, few of the 
young ladies who return home after a highly 
finished education, are possessed of health 


and energy sufficient to make use of their at- 
tainments, even if they occupied a field more 
suited to their display. 

I know not how it may affect others, but 
the number of languid, listless, and inert young 
ladies, who now recline upon our sofas, mur- 
muring and repining at every claim upon their 
personal exertions, is to me a truly melancholy 
spectacle, and one which demands the atten- 
tion of a benevolent and enlightened public, 
even more, perhaps, than some of those great 
national schemes in which the people and the 
government are alike interested. It is but 
rarely now that we meet witha really healthy 
woman: and, highly as intellectual attain- 
ments may be prized, I think all will allow 
that no qualifications can be of much value 
without the power of bringing them into use. 

The difference I would point out, between 
‘the exercise of the intellect and that of the 
moral feelings is this. It has so pleased the 
all-wise Disposer of our lives, that the duties 
he has laid down for the right government of 
. the human family, have in their very nature 


| 


27 


something that expands and invigorates the 
soul; so that instead of being weary of well- 
doing, the character becomes strengthened, 
the energies enlivened, and the whole sphere 
of capability enlarged. 

Who has not felt, after a long conflict be- 
tween duty and inclination, when at last the 
determination has been formed and duty has 
been submitted to, not grudgingly, but from 
very love to the Father of mercies, who alone 
can judge what will eventually promote the 
good of his weak, erring, and short-sighted 
creatures—from reverence for his holy laws, 
and from gratitude to the Saviour of man- 
kind ;—who has not felt a sudden impulse 
of thanksgiving and delight as they were en- 
abled to make this decision, a springing up, 
as it were, of the soul from the low cares and 
entanglements of this world, to a higher and 
purer state of existence, where the motives 
and feelings under which the choice has been 
made, will be appreciated and approved, but 
where every inducement that could have been 
brought forward to vindicate a different choice, 


- would have been rejected at the bar of eternal 


justice ? 

It is not the applause of man that can reach 
the heart under such circumstances. No hu- 
man eye is wished for, to look in upon our 
self-denial, or to witness the sacrifice we make. 
The good we have attempted to do may even 
fail in its effect. We know that the result is 
not with us, but with Him who seeth in se- 
cret, and who has left us in possession of this 
encouraging assurance, Inasmuch as ye do it 
unto one of these, ye do tt unto me. 

Was the human mind ever enfeebled, or 
the human frame exhausted, by feelings of 
kindness? No! The hour of true refresh- 
ment and invigoration, is that in which we 
do our duty, whatever it may be, cheerfully 
and humbly, as in the sight of God; not 
pluming ourselves upon our own merit, or 
anticipating great results, but with a child-like 
dependence upon his promises, and devout 
aspirations to be ever employed in working 
out his holy will. 

In the pursuit of intellectual attainments, 
we cannot encourage ourselves throughout 


lS 
: ooo 


28 


the day, nor revive our wearied energies at 

night, by saying, “It is for the love of my 
heavenly Father that I do this.” But, as a 
very little child may be taught, for the love 
of a lost parent, to avoid what that parent 
would have disapproved; so the young may 
be cheered and led onward in the path of duty 
by the same principle, connecting every action 
of their lives in which good and evil may be 
blended, with the condemnation or approval 
of their Father who is in heaven. 

There is no principle in our nature which 
at the same time softens and ennobles, sub- 
dues and exalts, so much as the principle of 
gratitude ; and it ought ever to be remember- 
ed, in numbering our blessings, that gratitude 
has been made the foundation of Christian 
morality. ‘The ancient philosophers had their 
system of morals, and a beautiful one it was. 
But it had this defect—it had no sure foun- 
dation ; sometimes shifting from expediency 
to the rights of man, and thus having no fixed 
and determinate character. The happier sys- 
tem under which we are privileged to live, 
has all the advantages acknowledged by the 
philosophers of old, with this great and mer- 
ciful addition, that it is peculiarly calculated 
to wind itself in with our affections, by being 
founded upon gratitude, and thus to excite, 
in connection with the practice of all it enjoins, 
those emotions of mind which are most con- 
ducive to our happiness. 

Let us imagine a little community of young 
women, among whom, to do an act of disin- 
terested kindness should be an object of the 
highest ambition, and where to do any act of 
pure selfishness, tending, however remotely, 
to the injury of another, should be regarded 
as the deepest disgrace; where they should 

| be accustomed to consider their time not as 
their own, but tent them solely for the pur- 
pose of benefiting their fellow-creatures; and 
where those who were known to exercise the 
greatest charity and forbearance, should be 
looked upon as the most exalted individuals 
in the whole community. Would these girls 
be weary? Would they be discontented, list- 
less, and inanimate? The experiment re- 
mains to be tried. 


MODERN EDUCATION OF 


has injured no one by her bad example, ex- 


she has not sinned beyond her own tempta- 


It is a frequent and popular remark, that 
girls are less trouble to manage in families 
than boys; and so unquestionably they are. 
But when their parents go on to say that girls 
awaken less anxiety, are safer and more easily 
brought up, I am disposed to think such pa- 
rents look with too superficial a view to the 
conduct of their children before the world, 
rather than the state of their hearts before 
God. 

It is true that girls have little temptation, 
generally speaking, to vice. They are so 
hemmed in and guarded by the rules of so- 
ciety, that they must be destitute almost of 
the common feelings of human nature, to be 
willing, for any consideration, to sacrifice 
their good name. But do such parents ever 
ask, how much of evil may be cherished and 
indulged in, and the good name retained? I 
am aware that among the generality of wo- 
men there is more religious feeling than among 
men, more observance of the ordinances of 
religion, more reading of the scriptures, and 
more attention to the means of religious in- 
formation. But let not the woman who sits 
in peace, and unassailed by temptation, in the 
retirement of her own parlor, look down with 
self-complacency and contempt upon the open 
transgressions of her erring brother. Rather 
let her weigh in the scale his strong passions, 
and strong inducements to evil, and, it may 
be, strong compunctions too, against her own 
little envyings, bickerings, secret spite, and 
soul-cherished idolatry of self; and then ask 
of her conscience which is the furthest in ad- 
vance towards the kingdom of heaven. 

It is true, she has uttered no profane ex- |; 
pression, but she has set afloat upon a winged 
whisper the transgression of her neighbor. 
She has polluted her lips with no intoxicating 
draught, but she has drunk of the Circean 
cup of flattery, and acted from vanity and 
selflove, when she was professing to act : 
from higher motives. She has run into no | 
excesses, but the excess of display ; and she 


cept:in the practice of petty faults. In short, 


tions. 


One of the most striking features in the 
character of the young ladies of the present 
day, is the absence of contentment. They 
are lively when excited, but no sooner does 
the excitement cease, than they fall back into 
their habitual listlessness, under which they 
so often complain of their fate, and speak of 
themselves as unfortunate and afflicted, that 
one would suppose them to be the victims of 
adversity, did not a more intimate acquaint- 
ance with their actual circumstances, convince 
us that they were surrounded by every thing 
conducive to rational comfort. For the sake 
of the poetry of the matter, one would 
searcely deny to every young lady her little 
canker-worm to nurse in her bosom, since 
all must have their pets. But when they add 
selfishness to melancholy, and trouble their 
friends with their idle and fruitless com- 
plaints, the case becomes too, serious for a 
jest. Indeed, I am not sure that the professing 
Christian, who rises every morning with a 
cherished distaste for the duties of the day, 
who turns away when they present them- 
selves, under a belief that they are more diffi- 
cult or more disgusting than the duties of 
other people, who regards her own allotment 
in the world as peculiarly hard, and never 
pours forth her soul in devout thanksgiving 
for the blessings she enjoys, is not in reality 
as culpable in the sight of God, and living as 
much at variance with the spirit of true re- 
ligion, as the individual who spends. the 
same portion of time in the practice of more 
open and palpable sin. 

It is an undeniable improvement in modern 
education, that religious instruction is becom- 
ing more general, that pupils are questioned 
in the knowledge of the Scriptures, instruct- 
ed in the truths of religion, and sent forth 
into the world prepared to give an answer 
respecting the general outlines of Christian- 
ity. So long, however, as the discontent 
above alluded to remains so prevalent, we 
must question the sufficiency of this method 
of instruction; and it is under a strong 
conviction, that to teach young people to 
talk about religion is but a small part of what 
is necessary to the establishment of their 


FRIMHET PIERRE TE! 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


Christian characters, that I have ventured 
to put forth what may be regarded as crude 
remarks upon this important subject. | 
I still cling fondly to the hope, that, ere 
long, some system of female instruction will 
be discovered, by which the young women of 
England may be sent home from school pre- 
pared for the stations appointed them: by 
Providence to fill in after life, and prepared 
to fill them well. Then indeed may this fa- 
vored country boast of her privileges, when 
her young women return to their homes and 
their parents, habituated to be on the watch 
for every opportunity of doing good to 
others; making it the first and the last in- 
quiry of every day, “ What can I do to make 
my parents, my brothers, or my sisters, more 
happy? lam but a feeble instrument in the 
hands of Providence, to work out any of his 
benevolent designs; but as he will give me 
strength, I hope to pursue the plan to. which 
I have been accustomed, of seeking my own 
happiness only in the happiness of others. 


CHAPTER IV. 


DRESS AND MANNERS. 


Tuat the extent of woman’s influence is 
not always commensurate with the cultiva- 
tion of her intellectual powers, is a truth 
which the experience and observation of 
every day tend to confirm; for how often do 
we find that a lavish expenditure upon the 
means of acquiring knowledge is productive 
of no adequate result in the way of lessening 
the sum of hurnan misery! 

When. we examine the real state of society, 
and single out the individuals whose habits, 
conversation, and character produce the hap-: 
piest effect upon their fellow-creatures, we in- 
variably find them persons who are morally, 
rather than intellectually, great; and conse- 
quently the profession of genius is, to a: wo- 
man, a birthright of very questionable value. 
It isa remark, not always charitably made, 
but unfortunately too true, that the most tal- 


30 


DRESS AND MANNERS OF 


= 


ented women are not the most agreeable in 
their domestic capacity: and frequent and 
unsparing are the batteries of sarcasm and 
wit, which consequently open upon our un- 
fortunate blues! It should be remembered, 
however, that the evil is not in the presence 
of one quality, but in the absence of an- 
other; and we ought never: to forget the re- 
deeming excellence of those signal instances, 
in which the moral worth of the female 
character is increased and supported by in- 
tellectual power. If in order to maintain a 


beneficial influence in society, superior talent, 


or even a high degree of learning, were re- 


quired, solitary and insignificant would be 


the lot of some of the most social, benevo- 
lent, and noble-hearted women, who now oc- 
cupy the very centre of attraction within their 
respective circles, and claim from all around 
them a just and appropriate tribute of affec- 
tion and esteem. 

It need scarcely be repeated, that although 
great intellectual attainments are by no means 
the highest recommendation that a woman 
can possess, the opposite extreme of igno- 
rance, or natural imbecility of mind, are ef- 
fectual barriers to the exercise of any con- 
siderable degree of influence in society. An 
ignorant woman who has not the good sense 
to keep silent, or a weak woman pleased 
with her own prattle, are scarcely less an- 
noying than humiliating to those who, from 
acquaintance or family connection, have the 
misfortune to be identified with them: yet it 
is surprising how far a small measure of tal- 
ent, or of mental cultivation, may be made 
to extend in the way of giving pleasure, 
when accompanied with good taste, good 
sense, and good feeling, especially with that 
feeling which leads the mind from self and 
selfish motives, into an habitual regard to the 
good and happiness of others. 

The more we reflect upon the subject, the 
more we must be convinced, that there is a 
system of discipline required for women, 
totally distinct from what is called the learn- 
ing of the schools, and that, unless they can 
be prepared for their allotment in life by 
some process calculated to fit them for per- 


ee seas SSeS a “ 


forming its domestic duties, the time bestow- 


ed upon their education will be found, in af- || 


ter life, to have been wholly inadequate to 
procure for them either habits of usefulness, 
or a healthy tone of mind. 

It would appear from a superficial obser- 
vation of the views of domestic and social 


duty about to be presented, that, in the esti- | 


mation of the writer, the great business of a 
woman’s life was to make herself agreeable ; 
for so minute are some of the points which 
properly engage her attention, that they 
scarcely seem to bear upon the great ob- 
ject of doing good. Yet when we reflect 
that by giving pleasure in an innocent and 
unostentatious manner, innumerable chan- 
nels are opened for administering instruction, 
assistance, or consolation, we cease to regard 
as insignificant the smallest of those means 
by which a woman can render herself an ob- 
ject either of affection or disgust. 

First, then, and most familiar to common 
observation, is her personal appearance ; and 
in this case, vanity, more potent in woman’s 
heart than selfishness, renders it an object of 
general solicitude to be so adorned as best to 
meet and gratify the public taste. Without 
inquiring too minutely into the motive, the 
custom, as such, must be commended : for, 
like many of the minor virtues of women, 
though scarcely taken note of in its immedi- 
ate presence, it is sorely missed when absent. 
A careless or slatternly woman, for instance, 
is one of the most repulsive objects in crea- 
tion; and such is the force of public opinion 
in favor of the delicacies of taste and feeling 
in the female sex, that no power of intellect, 
or display of learning, can compensate to 
men, for the want of nicety or neatness in 
the women with whom they associate in do- 
mestic life. In vain to them might the wreath 
or laurel wave in glorious triumph over locks 
uncombed ; and wo betide the heroine, whose 
stocking, even of the deepest blue, betrayed 
a lurking hole! 

It is, however, a subject too serious for 
jest, and ought to be regarded by all women 
with earnest solicitude, that they may con- 
stantly maintain in their own persons that 


——- 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


strict attention to good taste and delicacy of 
feeling, which affords the surest evidence of 
‘delicacy of mind; a quality without which 
no woman ever was, or ever will be, charm- 
ing. Let her appear in company with what 
accomplishments she may, let her charm by 
her musical talents, attract by her beauty, or 
enliven by her wit, if there steal from under- 
neath her graceful drapery, the soiled hem, 
the tattered frill, or even the coarse garment 
out of keeping with her external finery, im- 
agination naturally carries the observer to 
her dressing-room, her private. habits, and 
even to her inner mind, where it is almost 
impossible to believe that the same want of 
order and purity does not prevail. 

It is a prevalent but most injurious mis- 
take, to suppose that all women must be 
splendidly and expensively dressed, to re- 
commend themselves to general approbation. 
In order to do this, how many, in the sphere 
of life to which these remarks apply, are lit- 
erally destitute of comfort, both in their hearts 
and in their homes; for the struggle between 
parents and children, to raise the means on 
one hand, and to obtain them either by argu- 
ment or subterfuge on the other, is.but one 
among the many sources of family discord 
and individual suffering, which mark out the 
excess of artificial wants, as the great evil of 
the present times. | 

A very slight acquaintance with the sen- 
timents and tone of conversation familiar 
among men, might convince all whose minds 
are open to conviction, that thetr admiration 
is not to be obtained by the display of any 
kind of extravagance in dress. There may 
be occasional instances of the contrary, but 
the praise most liberally and uniformly be- 
stowed by men upon the dress of women, is, 
that it is neat, becoming, or in good taste. 

The human mind is often influenced by 
association, while immediate impression is all 
that it takes cognizance of at the moment. 
Thus a splendidly dressed woman entering 
the parlor of a farm-house, or a tradesman’s 
drawing-room, bursts upon the sight as an 
astounding and almost monstrous spectacle ; 
and we are scarcely aware that the repulsion 


we instantaneously experience, arises from a 
secret conviction of how much the gorgeous 
fabric must have cost the wearer, in time, 
and thought, and money; especially when 
we known that the same individual is under 
the necessity of spending her morning hours 
in culinary operations, and is, or ought to 
be, the sharer of her husband’s daily toil. 

There is scarcely any object in art or na- 
ture, calculated to excite our admiration, 
which may not, from being ill-placed, excite 
our ridicule or disgust. Each individual 
article of clothing worn by this woman, may 
be superb in itself, but there is a want of fit- 
ness and harmony in the whole, from which 
we turn away. 

Perhaps there are no single objects in 
themselves so beautiful as flowers, and it 
might seem difficult to find a situation in 
which they could be otherwise; yet I have 
seen—and seen with a feeling almost like 
pity—at the conclusion of a feast, fair rose- 
leaves and sweet jessamine floating amidst 
such inappropriate elements, that all their 
beauty was despoiled, and they were fit only 
to be cast away with the refuse of gross 
matter in which they were involved. 

Admiration of a beautiful object, how in- 
tense soever it may be, cannot impart that 
high tone of intellectual enjoyment which 
arises from our aumiration of fitness and 
beauty combined ; and thus the richest silk, 
and the finest lace, when inappropriately 
worn, are beautifully manufactured articles, 
but nothing more. While, therefore, on the 
one hand, there is.a-moral degradation in the 
consciousness of wearing soiled or disreputa- 
ble garments, or being in any way below the 
average of personal decency, there is, on the 
other, a gross violation of good taste, in as- 
suming for the middle classes of society, 
whose occupations are closely connected 
with the means of bodily subsistence, the 
same description of personal ornament as 
belongs with more propriety to those who 
enjoy the luxury of giving orders, without 
any necessity for further occupation of time 
and thought. 

The most frequently recurring perplexities 


Oe ee 


: 


al 


! 


32 


of woman’s life arise from cases which re- 
ligion does not immediately reach, and’ in 
which she is still expected to decide properly 
and act agreeably, without any other law 
than that of good taste for her guide. Good 
taste is therefore most essential to the regula- 
tion of her dress and general appearance ; 
and wherever any striking violation of this 
principle appears, the beholder is immediate- 
ly impressed with the idea that a very im- 
portant rule of her life and conduct is want- 
ing. It is not all who possess this guide 
within themselves ; but an attentive observa- 
tion of human life and character, especially 
a due regard to the beauty of fitness, would 
enable all to avoid giving offence in this par- 
ticular way. 

The regard to fitness here recommended, 
is a. duty of much more serious importance 
than would at first sight appear, since it in- 
volves a consideration which cannot too often 
be presented to the mind, of what, and who 
we are !—what is the station we are appoint- 
ed to fill, and what the objects for which we 
are living? 

Behold yon gorgeous fabric in the distance, 
with its rainbow hues, and gems, and shining 
drapery, 


“And flowers the fairest, that might feast the bee.”’ 


A coronet of beauty crowns the whole, and 
feathery ornaments, on frail silvery threads, 
glitter and wave, and tremble at every mov- 
ing breath. Surely the countenance of Flora 
blooms below, and Zephyrus suspends his 
gentle wings at her approach. The spectacle 
advances. It is not health, nor youth, nor 
beauty that we see; but poor, decrepit, help- 
less, miserable old age. We gaze, and a 
shudder comes over us, for Death is grinning 
in the background, and we hear his voice 
triumphantly exclaiming, ‘This is mine !” 
Look at that moving garden, and those 
waving plumes, as they pass along the aisle 
of the church or the chapel. They form the 
adornment of a professedly Christian woman, 
the mother of a family; and this is the day 
appointed for partaking of that ordinance to 
which Christians are invited to come in meek- 


DRESS AND MANNERS OF 


‘maintain what they believe to be a fashion- 


ness and lowliness of spirit, to commemorate 
the love of their Redeemer, who, though he 
was rich, for their sakes became poor—who 
humbled himself, and became obedient unto 
death, to purchase their exemption from the 
penalty of sin, and the bondage of the world. 

We would earnestly hope that, in the 
greater number of such cases as these, the 
error is in the judgment-— the mockery 
thoughtlessly assumed: but would not the 
habit of self-examination, followed up by seri- 
ous inquiry respecting our real and individ- 
ual position in society, as moral agents, and | 
immortal beings, be a likely means of avert- 
ing the ridicule that age is ill prepared to 
bear; and, what is of infinitely more conse- 
quence, of preventing the scandal that reli- 
gion has too much cause to charge upon her 
friends ? 

It frequently happens that women in the 
middle class of society are not entirely free 
from provincialisms in their manner of speak- 
ing, as well as other peculiarities, by which 
it may easily be discovered that their interests | 
are local, and their means of information of 
limited extent; in short, that they are persons 
who have but little acquaintance with the 
polite or fashionable world, and yet they may 
be persons highly estimable and important in 
their own sphere. Very little either of esteem 
or importance, however, attaches to their 
characters, where their ingenuity is taxed to 


able or elegant exterior, and which, in con- 
nection with their unpolished dialect and 
homely occupations, renders them but too 
much like the chimney-sweeper’s queen 
decked out for a May-day exhibition. The 
invidious question unavoidably occurs to the 
beholder—for what or for whom has such a 
person mistaken herself? while, had she 
been dressed in a plain substantial costume, 
corresponding with her mind and habits, she 
might have been known at once, and re- 
spected for what she really was,—a rational, 
independent, and valuable member of society. 

It is not, by any means, the smallest of the 
services required by Christian charity, to 
point out to our fellow-countrywomen how 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


| 

they may avoid being ridiculous. Perhaps 

a higher degree of intellectual dignity would 

raise us all above the weakness of being 

moved to laughter by so slight a cause. But 

such is the constitution of the general order 

of minds, that they are less entertained by 

| the most pointed witticisms, than by those 

1 striking contrasts and discrepancies, which 
| seem to imply that rusticity has mistaken 

itself for elegance, deformity for beauty, age 
| for youth. I pretend not to defend this pro- 

pensity to turn so serious a mistake into jest. 
| I merely say that such a propensity does 
exist, and, what is among the anomalies of 
our nature, that it sometimes exhibits itself 
most unreservedly in the very individuals 
who in their turn are furnishing food for 
merriment to others. 

The laughing philosopher might have rea- 
soned thus, “ Let them all laugh on, they will 
cure each other.” But the question is—does 
ridicule correct the evil? Most assuredly it 
does not. It does something more, however. 
It rankles like a poison in the bosom where 
it falls, and destroys the peace of many an 
amiable but ill-judging candidate for public 
admiration. Women, especially, are its vic- 
tims and its prey; and well do they learn, 
under the secret tutelage of envy, jealousy, 
and pride, how to make this engine of discord 
play upon each other. 

When we listen to the familiar conversa- 
tion of women, especially of those whose 
minds are tainted by vulgarity, and unen- 
lightened by the higher principles of religion, 
we find that a very large portion of their time 
and attention is bestowed upon the subject 
of dress—not of their own dress merely, but 
of that of their neighbors; and looking fur- 
ther, we find, what is more astonishing, that 
there exists in connection with the same 
subject, a degree of rivalry and ambition 
which call forth many of the evil passions 
that are ever ready to spring into action, and 
_marthe pleasant pictures of social life. In 
awakening these, the ridicule already alluded 
to is a powerful agent; for, like the most in- 
jurious of libels, it adheres so nearly to the 
truth, as to set contradiction at defiance. 


i 


33 


Thus, there are few persons who would not 
rather be maligned than ridiculed ; and thus 
the wounds inflicted by ridicule are the most 
difficult to heal, and the last to be forgiven. 

Surely, then, it is worth paying regard to 
the principles of fitness and consistency, in 
order to avoid the consequences necessarily 
resulting from every striking deviation from 
these rules ; and the women of England pos- 
sess many advantages in the cultivation of 
their natural powers of discrimination and 
reason, for enabling them to ascertain the pre- 
cise position of this line of conduct, which it 
is so important to them to observe. They 
are free from many of the national prejudices 
entertained by the women of other countries, 
and they enjoy the inestimable privilege of 
being taught to look up to a higher standard 
of morals, for the right guidance of their con- 
duct. Itis to them, therefore, that we look 
for what rational and useful women ought to 
be, not only in the essentials of Christian 
character, but in the minor points of social, 
domestic, and individual duty. 

Much that has been said on the subject of 
dress, is equally applicable to that of manners. 
Fitness and adaptation, are here, as well as in 
the former instance, the general rule; for of 
what value is elegance in a cottage, or the 
display of animal strength at a European 
court 4 

In the middle walks of life, an easy man- 
ner, free from affectation on the one hand, 
and grossness on the other, is all that is re- 
quired; and such are, or ought to be, the oc- 
cupations of all women of this class, as most 
happily to induce such habits of activity and 
free-agency, as would effectually preserve 
them from the two extremes of coldness and 
frivolous absurdity. 

The grand error of the day seems to be, 
that of calling themselves ladies, when it 
ought to be their ambition to be women,— 
women who fill a place, and occupy a post— 
members of the commonwealth—supporters 
of the fabric of society,—the minor wheels 


and secret springs of the great machine of | 


human life and action, which cannot move 
harmoniously, nor with full effect to the ac- 


a EY 


34 


complishment of any great or noble purpose, 
while clogged with the lovely burdens, and 
impeded by the still-life attitudes of those 
useless members of the community, who cast 
themselves about on every hand, in the vain 
hope of being valued and admired for doing 
nothing. 

Among the changes introduced by modern 
taste, it is not the least striking, that all the 
daughters of trades-people, when sent to 
school, are no longer girls, but young ladies. 
The linen-draper whose worthy consort oc- 
cupies her daily post behind the counter, re- 
ceives her child from Mrs. Montague’s estab- 
lishment—a young lady. At the same ele- 
gant and expensive seminary, music and 
Italian are taught to Hannah Smith, whose 
father deals in Yarmouth herrings; and there 
is the butcher’s daughter, too, perhaps the 
most lady-like of them all. The manners of 
these young ladies naturally take their tone 
and character from the ridiculous assump- 
tions of modern refinement. The butcher’s 
daughter is seized with nausea at the spec- 
tacle of raw meat—Hannah Smith is incapa- 
ble of existing within the atmosphere of her 
father’s home—and the child of the linen- 
draper elopes with a. merchant’s clerk, to 
avoid the dire necessity of assisting in her 
father’s shop. 

What a catalogue of miseries might be 
made out, as the consequence of this mis- 
taken ambition of the women of England to 
be ladies! Gentlewomen they may be, and 
refined women too; for when did either gen- 
tleness or true refinement disqualify a woman 
for her proper duties? But that assumption 
of delicacy which unfits, them for the real 
business of life, is more to be dreaded in its 
fatal influence upon their happiness, than the 
most agonizing disease with which they could 
be afflicted. 

It is needless to say that women of this 
morbid, imbecile character have no influence. 
They are so occupied with the minutiz of 
their own. personal. miseries, that they have 
no time to think of the sin and the sorrow 
existing in the world around them. What- 
ever is proposed to them in the way of doing 


a 


DRESS AND MANNERS OF 


good, is sure to meet with a listless, weary, 


murmuring denial; for if the hundred-and- 


one objections, arising out of other fancied 
causes, should be obviated, there are their 
endless and inexhaustible nerves. Alas, alas! 
that English women should ever have found 
themselves out to be possessed of nerves! 
Not the most exquisite creation of the poet’s 
fancy was ever supposed to be more suscep- 
tible of pain than is now the highly-educated 
young lady, who reclines upon a couch in an 
apartment slightly separated from that in 
which her father sells his goods, and but one 
remove from the sphere of her mother’s cu- 
linary toil. | 

How different from this feeble, discontent- 
ed, helpless thing, is the woman who shows 
by her noble bearing that she knows her true 
position in society; and who knows also, 
that the virtue and the value attaching to 
her character must be in exact proportion to 
the benefit she confers upon her fellow-crea- 
tures ;—above all, who feels that the only 
Being who is capable of knowing what is 
ultimately best, has seen meet to place her 
exactly where the powers of her mind and 
the purposes of her life may be made most 
conducive to his merciful and wise designs! 
Not the meanest habiliments, nor the most 
homely personal aspect, can conceal the 
worth and the dignity of such a woman; 
and whatever that position with which she 
has made herself so well acquainted may be, 
she will find that her influence extends to its 
remotest circle. 

It is impossible to say what the manners 
of such a woman are. In the cottage, in the 
court, in the daily and hourly performance 
of social services, they are, and must be, 
characterized by the same attributes—gene- 
ral adaptation supported by dignity, a high 
sense of duty predominating over every ten- 
dency to selfish indulgence, and prompting 
to the performance of every kind of practical 
good, a degree of self-respect, without which 
no talent can be matured, and no purpose 


rendered firm; yet, along with this, a far |} 


higher degree of respect for others, exhibited 
in modes of deference, and acts of considera. 


‘ 
a ep tc lp ee eae epee a a aa ion open aeoce anata Se 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


35 


tion as various as the different characters 
whose good or whose happiness are the sub- 
jects of her care ; and, lastly, that sweet sis- 
ter of benevolence, charity, without which no 
woman ever yet could make herself a desira- 
ble companion or friend. 

It may be said that these are virtues, not 
modes of conduct; but how much of virtue, 
particularly that of charity, may be implied 
and understood by what is commonly called 
manner! 'That which in the present day is 
considered the highest attainment in this 
branch of conduct, is a lady-like manner, and 
itis one that well deserves the attention of 
all who wish to recommend themselves— 
who wish, as all must do, to ward off insult- 
ing familiarity, and court respectful consider- 
ation. ‘There are, however, many impres- 
sions conveyed to the minds of others by 
mere manner, far exceeding this in interest 
and importance. What, for instance, is so 
consoling to the afflicted as a sympathizing 
manner? ‘The direct expression of sympathy 
might possibly give pain; but there isa man- 
ner, and happy are they who possess it, 
which conveys a silent invitation to the sor- 
sowing soul to unburden its griefs, with an 
assurance that it may do so without fear of 
treachery or unkindness. There seems to 
be an instinct in our nature by which this 
mode of expressing syrnpathy is rendered 
intelligible; and who that ,has any thing to 
do with sorrow or suffering, or any wish to 
alleviate the pressure of either, would not 
desire that their manner should be so fraught 
with sympathy as to impart the consolation 
they may be unable to express in words? 

Who, on the other hand, in a world which 
all the afflicted are disposed to consider cold 
and unfeeling, has not felt what it was, to 
meet with that peculiar tone of voice, that 
long, earnest gaze of the eye, and that watch- 
fulness of personal comfort, which belong to 
a degree of interest deeper than can be told, 
and which gonvince beyond the power of 
language, that we are not—we cannot be 
overlooked or forgotten? How many an 


alien has been invited to return by a look, a 
tone, a gesture, when no power of speech 


-and obscure. 


would have conveyed the same impression 


of a welcome! How many a prejudice has 
been overcome—how many a dangerous res- 
olution broken—-how many a dark design 
defeated by a conciliating and confiding: man- 
ner? And may it not also be asked, how 
many an insult has been repelled by a man- 
ner fraught with dignity ; how many an in- 
jury has been returned into the bosom where 
it originated, by a manner which conveyed 
all the bitterness of cherished and determined 
revenge ? 

To those who make the human mind their 
study, the mode of acting is of more import- 
ance than the action itself; and to women it 
is especially so, because the sphere in which 
they actually move is comparatively limited 
It is seldom regarded as con- 
sistent with that delicacy which forms so 
great a charm in their nature, that they 
should act out to their full extent all the deep 
feelings of which they are capable. Thus 
there is no other channel for their perpetual 
overflow, than that of their manners; and 
thus a sensitive and ingenuous woman can 
exhibit much of her own character, and lead 
others out into the display of much of theirs, 
simply by the instrumentality of her manners; 
and, upon the same principle, that good breed- 
ing which obtains the highest applause in 
society, is but an imitation or assumption of 
every moral excellence, depicted on a minor 
scale. 

Good manners are the small-coin of virtue, 
distributed abroad as an earnest—we will not 
ask how fallacious—of the greater and better 
things that lie beyond. The women of Eng- 
land are becoming increasingly solicitous 
about their manners, that they may in all 
points resemble such as prevail in a higher 
circle of society, and be, consequently, the 
best. But would it not be more advantage- 
ous to them, to bestow the same increase of 
solicitude upon what constitutes the true 
foundation of all that is amiable and excel- 
lent in life and conduct? Would it not be 
more advantageous to them to remember, 
that in the sphere of life appointed for them 
to fill, stronger and inore efficient traits of 


cael 


36 


character are required, than can possibly be 
classed under the epithet of lady-like? Not 
that coarseness or vulgarity of manner could 
ever be tolerated in those delicate intimacies, 
and intellectual associations, which properly 
belong to the class of women of whom Eng- 
land had once a right to boast—intimacies 
and associations, intervening like gleams of 
sunshine, between their seasons of perplex- 
ity and care; but the manners I would earn- 
estly recommend to my countrywomen, are 
of a character calcujated to convey an idea 
of much more than refinement; they are man- 
‘ners to which a high degree of moral influence 
belongs, inasmuch as they inspire confidence, 
command esteem, and contribute to the gene- 
ral sum of human happiness. 

Adaptation is the leading feature in this 
class of manners—adaptation not only to the 
circumstances of the person who acts and 
speaks, but also to the circumstances of those 
upon whom such speech or action operates. 
A light, careless, sportive manner is some- 
times thought exceedingly charming; and 
when it emanates from youth and innocence, 
can scarcely fail to please ; but when such a 
manner is affected by a woman of ponderous 
personal weight, of naturally grave coun- 
tenance, and responsible station in society, 
none can avoid being struck with the obvious 
anomaly, and few can avoid being moved to 
laughter or contempt. 

In English society it frequently happens 
that persons of humble parentage, and homely 
station, in early life, are raised, by the acqui- 
sition of wealth, to the enjoyment of luxu- 
rious indulgence. How absurd in such cases, 
is that assumption of delicacy and of aristo- 
‘cratic dignity which we too often see, and 
which is sure to give rise to every variety 
of uncharitable remark upon what they and 
their families have been ! 

Self-importance, or rather a_ prevailing 
consciousness of self, is the most universal 
hindrance to the attainment of agreeable 
manners. A woman of delicate feelings and 
cultivated mind, who goes into company de- 
termined to be interested, rather than to in- 
terest, can scarcely fail to please. We are 


Seco RED ST ae SEIS 


DRESS AND MANNERS OF 


assured, however, that in this respect there 
is something very defective in the present 
state of society. All desire to make an im- 


pression, none to be impressed ; and thus |} 


the social intercourse of every day is ren- 
dered wearisome, if not disgusting, by the 
constant struggle of each contending party 
to assume the same relative position. 

An instance relating immediately to an an- 
imal of inferior grade in the creation to man, 
but bearing some affinity to the case in point, 
is told by a traveller, whose party having 
shot several old monkeys, took home their 
young ones to the camp where he was sta- 
tioned. He amused himself in the evening 
by watching these little animals, which had 
been so accustomed to be caressed and car- 
ried about by their parents, that they ex- 
pected the same services from each other, 
and by their persevering efforts to obtain as- 
sistance from those who in an equal degree 
required it from them, formed themselves 
into a tumultuous heap, and nearly worried 
each other to death. 

It might be invidious to compare the tu- 
mult of feeling, the weariness, and the fatality 
to happiness experienced by these animals, 
to that which is produced by the general de- 
sire to make an impression, in modern so- 
ciety ; but none can be blind to the fact, that 
a determination to be pleased in company, is 
the surest means of giving pleasure, as well 
as of receiving it. 

A young lady who has not had an oppor- 
tunity of conversing, of playing, or of show- 
ing off in any other way, is almost sure to 
return from an evening party complaining of 
its dulness, and discontented with herseif, as 
well as with every one besides. Ask her if 
such and such agreeable and intelligent per- 
sons were not present; and she answers, 
“Yes”? Ask her if they did not converse, 
and converse pleasantly ; and still she an- 
swers, “Yes.”” What then? The fact is, 
she has herself made no impression, charmed 
nobody, and therefore, as a necessary conse- 
quence, she is not charmed. 

How much more happiness does that wo- 
man experience, who, when in company, di- 


aa a ee I OI ER OT ADEE AED IOLA RETAIL GE POLL POET TC TRB LEE LIED EEG LLLP BOA ELIE IOLA SE TODO IIT ESF EE TEPID LE DEBATE LD I ELE GSES SIO AT REN ILE 


| 


a = a 


THE WOMEN 


rects her attention to her nearest neighbor ; 
and, beholding a cheerful countenance, or 
|| hearing a pleasant voice, is encouraged to 
proceed in cultivating an acquaintance, which 
may ultimately ripen into friendship, may 
teach her some useful lesson, or raise her 
estimate of her fellow-creatures. Even where 
no such agreeable results are experienced, 
where the party attempted proves wholly 
impracticable, there is still a satisfaction in 
having made the trial, far beyond what can 
be experienced by any defeated attempt to 
be agreeable. Indeed the disappointment of 
having failed to make a pleasing impression 
merely for the purpose of gratifying our own 
vanity, without reference to the hdppiness 
of others, is adapted in an especial man- 
ner to sour the temper, and depress the 
mind ; because we feel along with the disap- 
pointment, a mortifying consciousness that 
our ambition has been of an undignified and 
selfish kind; while, if our endeavor has 
been to contribute to the general sum of so- 
cial enjoyment, by encouraging the diffident, 
cultivating the acquaintance of the amiable, 
and stimulating latent talent, we cannot feel 
depressed by such a failure, nor mortified at 
our want of success. 

The great question with regard to modern 
education is, which of these two classes of 
feeling does it instil into the mind—does it 
inspire the young women of the present day 
with an amiable desire to make everybody 
happy around them? or does it teach them 
only to sing, and play, and speak in foreign 
languages, and consequently leave them to 
be the prey of their own disappointed feel- 
ings, whenever they find it impossible to 
make any of these qualifications tell upon 
society. — : 


CHAPTER V. 
CONVERSATION OF THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


It may not, perhaps, be asking too much 
of the reader, to request that gentle person- 


t— 


age to bear in mind, that in speaking both of 
the characteristics and the influence of a cer- 
tain class of females, strict reference has 
been maintained, throughout the four pre- 
ceding chapters, to such as may with justice 
be denominated true English women. With 
puerile exotics, bending from their own fee- 
bleness, and wandering, like weeds, about 
the British garden to the hindrance of the 
growth of all useful plants, this work has 
little to do, except to point out how they 
might have been cultivated to better purpose. 

I have said of English women, that they 
are the best fireside companions; but Iam | 
afraid that my remark must apply to a very 
small portion of the community at large. 
The number of those who are wholly desti- 
tute of the highest charm belonging to social 
companionship, is lamentably great: and 
these pages would never have been obtruded 
upon the notice of the public, if there were 
not strong symptoms of the number becom- 
ing greater still. 

Women have-the choice of many means 
of bringing their principles into exercise, and 
of obtaining influence, both in their own do- 
mestic sphere, and in society at large. Among 
the most important of these is conversation ; 
an engine so powerful upon the minds and 
characters of mankind in general, that beauty 
fades before it, and wealth in comparison is 
but as leaden coin. If match-making were 
indeed the great object of human life, I 
should scarcely dare to make this assertion, 
since few men choose women for their con- 
versation, Where wealth or beauty are to be 
had. I must, however, think more nobly 
of the female sex, and believe them more so- 
licitous to maintain affection after the match 
is made, than simply to be led to the altar, as 
wives whose influence will that day be laid 
aside with their wreaths of white roses, and 
laid aside forever. 

If beauty or wealth have been the bait in 
this connection, the bride may gather up her 
wreath of roses, and place them again upon 
her polished brow ; nay, she may bestow the 
treasures of her wealth without reserve, and 
permit the husband of her choice to 


ee eR AEE CC IC TE LT 


a 


De ee 


38 


* spoil her goodly lands to gild his waste ;” 
she may do what she will—dress, bloom, or 
descend from affluence to poverty; but if 
she has no intellectual hold upon her hus- 
band’s heart, she must inevitably become 
that most helpless and pitiable of earthly ob- 
jects—a slighted wife. 

Conversation, understood in its proper 
character, as distinct from mere talk, might 
rescue her from this. Not conversation up- 
on books, if her husband happens to be a 
fox-hunter ; nor upon fox-hunting, if he is a 
book-worm ; but exactly that kind of conver- 

, sation which is best adapted to his tastes and 
habits, yet at the same time capable of lead- 
ing him a little out of both into a wider field 
of observation, and subjects he may never 


| have derived amusement from before, simply 


from the fact of their never having been pre- 
sented to his notice. . 
How pleasantly the evening hours may be 
made to pass, when a woman who really can 
converse, will thus beguile the time! But, on 
the other hand, how wretched is the portion 
of that man who dreads the dulness of his 
own fireside—who sees the clog of his exist- 
ence ever seated there—the same, in the 
deadening influence she has upon his spirits, 
to-day, as yesterday, to-morrow, and the next 
day, and the next! Welcome, thrice wel- 
come, is the often-invited visiter, who breaks 
the dismal dual of this scene. 
Married women are often spoken of in 
high terms of commendation for their per- 
sonal services, their handiwork, and their do- 
mestic management; but I am inclined to 
think that a married woman, possessing all 
these, and even beauty too, yet wanting con- 


| versation, might become “ weary, stale, flat, 


and unprofitable,” in the estimation of her 
husband ; and, finally, might drive him from 


| his home by the leaden weight of her uncom- 
| panionable society. 


I know not whether other minds have felt | 


| the same as mine under the pressure of some 


| personal presence without fellowship of feel- 
| ing. Innocent and harmless the individual 
| may be who thus inflicts the grievance, yet 
| there is an irksomeness in their mere bodily 


CONVERSATION OF 


presence almost intolerable to be borne ; and 
in proportion to the estimate we form of real 
society, and companionship, and sympathy 
of feeling, is the dread we entertain of asso- 
ciation with mere animal life in its human | 
form, while nothing of this fellowship of feel- | 
ing is experienced. | 

There cannot, however, be a greater mis- | 
take in the science of being agreeable, than 
to suppose that conversation must be made | 
a business of. Oh! the misery of being pit- 
ted against a professional converser !—one | 
who looks from side to side until a vacant | 
ear is found, and commences a battery of | 
declamation if you will not answer, and of | 
argument if you will. Indeed, the immense | 
variety of annoyances deducible from ill- | 


managed conversation, are a sufficient proof | 


of its importance in society; and any one | 
disposed to dispute this fact, need only recall | 
the many familiar instances of disappoint- 
ment and chagrin which all who mix in any 
manner with what is called the world, must 
have experienced, from mistaken views of 
what is agreeable in conversation. 

It would be vain to attempt an enumera- | 
tion of the different aspects under which this 
peculiar kind of annoyance presents itself. 
A few heads will be sufficient, under which 
to range the different classes of injudicious 
talkers. First, then, we naturatly think of 
those who have obtained the conventional 
appellation of bores, or, to describe them 
more politely, the class of talkers whose 
over-solicitude is proportioned to their diffi- 
culty in obtaining patient hearers. These, 
again, may be subdivided into endless varie- 
ties, of which a few specimens will suffice. 
Yet among all these, even the most inveter- 
ate, may be found worthy individuals, whose 
qualifications for imparting both instruction 
and amusement are by no means contempti- 
ble. 

Entitled to distinction in the art of annoy- | 
ance are the hobby-riders—those who not |} 
only ride a favorite hobby themselves, but | 
expect every one they meet with to mount | 
and ride the same. Jt matters not whether | 
their ruling subject be painting or politics, |; 


= , — 
a Le 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


| except that minds devoted to the fine arts 
| have generally about them some delicacy as 
| to the reception of their favorites, and are 
| too shrinkingly alive to the slights it may re- 
| ceive, to risk its introduction without some 
| indication of a welcome. 
| ceptions even to this rule, and nothing can 
| be more wearisome to the uninitiated, or 
| more unintelligible to the unpractised ear, 
| than the jargon poured forth by an amateur 
painter without regard to the tastes or the 


Still there are ex- 


understandings of those around him. 
Perhaps his fellow-traveller is seated on 
some gentle eminence, drinking in the deep 
quiet of a summer’s evening, not merely 
from sight, but sound, and blending all with 
treasured memories of the past, in which no 
stranger could intermeddle, when the painter 
bursts upon him with his technicalities, and 
the illusion is gone. He raves about the 
breadth of the coloring. His companion sees 
the long tall shadows of the trees reflected 
on the sloping green, with the golden sunset 
gleaming in between the stems, and through 
the interstices of the foliage, and he knows 
not where the poetry or even the truth of 
this wonderful property of breadth can be. 
The painter descants upon the bringing out 
of the distant cottage from the wood. His 
companion is of opinion it would be better to 
let it remain where it is—half hid in the re- 
tirement of the forest, and sending up, as it 
seems, from the very bosom of the silent 
shade, its wreath of curling smoke, to indi- 
cate the social scene beneath its rustic roof, 
prepared for by the lighting of the wood- 
man’s fire. But the painter is not satisfied. 
He calls upon his friend to observe the 
grouping of the whole. He must have the 
outline broken. The thing is done. His 
sketch is exhibited in triumph, and he raves 
on with accelerated delight; for he has cleft 
the hills in twain, and placed a group of rob- 
bers on the broken ground. Alas! how 
should his companion believe or understand ! 
His thoughts are expatiating upon that scene, 
because its sloping hills, and cultivated fields, 
and gardens and orchards and village church- 
yard, are like the spot where he was born, 


_— 


and where his. father died ; and he sees no 
mountain gorge, nor bandit chief; nor hears 
the rush of torrents on the breeze; but his 
eye dwells again upon the apple-tree in its 
spring bloom, and the lambs upon the lea, 
and his ear is open to the cooing of the wood- 
pigeon on the chestnut boughs, and the sound 
of voices—than all other sounds more sweet 
—the voices that spoke kindly of his child. 
hood. 

It might be supposed that, if under any cir- 
cumstances the society of a painter could be 
always welcome, it would be among the vari- 
ed scents of a picturesque tour. But even 
here the mind has pictures of its own, and he 
who is perpetually telling you what to see, 
might as well force upon you at every view, 
the use of his camera lucida, and neither al- 
low you to gaze upon nature as you wish to 
behold it, nor as it really is. 

Women are, perhaps, less addicted than 
men to annoy others with their pet subjects ; 
because they have less opportunity of follow- 
ing out any particular branch of art or study, 


to the exclusion of others ; and politics, that | 


most prevalent and unceasing absorbent of 
conversation, is seldom a favorite theme with 


them. They have, however, their houses and | 


their servants, and, what is infinitely worse— 
they have themselves. 
Perhaps accustomed to a little private ad- 


miration in a remote corner of the world, they | 


obtain a false estimate of their own impor- 


tance, and act as if they thought no subject so | 


interesting as that which turns upon their own 
experience, their own peculiarities, or even 
their own faults. It does not always follow 
that such women admire themselves so much 
as the prevalence of self in their conversation 
would at first lead us to suppose, for in expa- 
tiating upon the good qualities of others, they 
often exclaim—and why should we doubt 
their sincerity ’—how much they wish they 
were like the beings they extol! They will 
even speak disparagingly of themselves, and 
tell of their own faults without occasion ; but 
even while they do this with an air of humil- 
ity, they seldom fail to leave an impression on 


39 | 


the minds of their hearers, that in reality they | 


40 


CONVERSATION OF 


like their own faults better than the virtues 
of others. 

It is not of much consequence what is the 
nature of the subject proposed to the attention 
of this class of talkers. Ifthe weather: “It 
does not agree with me, J like the wind from 
the west.” If the politics of the country in 
which they live : “ J have not given much at- 
tention to politics, nor do I think that women 
should.” If any moral quality in the abstract 
is discussed: “ Oh, that is just my fault !” or, 
“If I possess any virtue, I do think it is that.” 
If an anecdote is related: “ That is like [or 
not like] me. I should [or should not] have 
done the same.” If the beauty of any distant 
place is described: “J never was there, but 
my uncle once was within ten miles of it: 
and had it not been for the miscarriage of a 
letter, 1 should have been his companion on 
that journey. My uncle was always fond of 
taking me with him. Dear good man, I was 
a great pet of his.” If the lapse of time is 
the subject of conversation : “ The character 
undergoes many changes ina few years. I 
wonder whether, or in what way, mine will 
be altered two years hence.” If the moon: 
“ How many people write sonnets to the 
moon! J never did.” 

And thus sun, moon, and stars—the whole 
created universe—are but links in that con- 
tinuous chain which vibrates with perpetual 
music to the egotist, connecting all things in 
heaven and earth, however discordant or 
heterogeneous, by a perfect and harmonious 
union with self. 

A very slight degree of observation would 
enable such individuals to perceive that as 
soon as self is put in the place of any of the 
subjects in question, conversation necessarily 
flags, as this topic, to say the least of it, can- 
not be familiar to both parties. On one side, 
therefore, nothing further remains to be said ; 
for, however lovely the egotist may be in her 
own person, no man, or woman either, is pre- 
pared to have her substituted for the world in 
general, though it seems more than probable 
that the individual herself might not object to 
such a transposition. 

Another class of annoying talkers, whose 


claims to eminence in this line Iam in no way 
disposed to contest, consists of the talkers of || 
mere common-place—those who say nothing 
but what we could have said ourselves, had 
we deemed it worth our while, and who never 
on any occasion, or by any chance, give ut- 
terance toa new idea. Such people will talk. 
They seem to consider it their especial duty to 
talk, and no symptoms of inattention in their 
hearers, no impatient answer nor averted ear, 
nor even the interminable monotony of their 
own prattle, has the power to hush them into 
silence. If they fail in one thing, they try an- 
other; but, unfortunately for them, there is a 
transmuting medium in their own discourse, 
that would turn to dust the golden opinions 
of the wisest of men. 

We naturally ask in what consists that ob- 
jectionable common-place of which we com- 
plain, since the tenor of their conversation is 
not unlike the conversation of others. It is 
in reality too like, too much composed of the 
fillings-up of conversation in general. It has 
nothing distinctive in it, and, like certain let- 
ters we have seen, would answer the pur- 
pose as well if addressed to one individual as 
another. 

The talker of common-place is always in- 
terested in the weather, which forms an all- 
sufficient resource when other subjects fail. 
One would think, from the frequency with 
which the individual remarks upon the rising of 
clouds, and the falling of rain, she was perpet- 
ually on the point of setting out on a journey. 
But she treats the seasons with the same re- 
spect, and loses no opportunity of telling the 
farmer who is silently suffering from a wet 
harvest, that the autumn has been unusually 
unpropitious. If you cough, she hopes you 
have not taken cold, but really colds are ex- 
tremely prevalent. If you bring out your 
work, she admires both your industry and 
your taste, and assures you that rich colors 
are well thrown off by a dark ground. Ifbooks 
are the subject of conversation, she inquires 
whether you have read one that has just had 
a twelvemonth’s run of popularity. She 


thinks that authors sometimes go a little too 
far, but concludes, with what appears in her 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


41 


opinion tobe a universal case, that much may | has been at a world of pains to make every- 


be said on both sides. From books she pro- 
ceeds to authors; expatiates upon the ima- 
gination of Shakspeare, and the strength of 
mind possessed by Hannah More; and de- 
liberately inquires whether you do not agree 
with her in her sentiments respecting both. 
| Nay, so far does reality exceed imagination, 
| that I once heard a very sweet and amiable 
woman, whose desire to be at the same time 
both edifying and agreeable, somewhat out- 
| ran her originality of thought, exclaim, in one 
| of those pauses incident to conversation— 
| “What an excellent book the Bible is!” 
| Now, there is no gainsaying such an asser- 
| tion, and it is almost equally impossible to as- 
sent. Conversation, therefore, always flags 
| where common-place exists, because it elicits 

nothing, touches no answering chord, nor con- 
| veys any other idea than that of bare sound 
to the ear of the reluctant listener. 

Another and most prolific source of annoy- 
ance is found among that class of persons 

who choose to converse on subjects interest- 
| ing to themselves, without regard to time, or 
place, or general appropriateness. Whatever 
they take up, either as their ruling topic, or 
| as one of momentary interest, is forced upon 
society, whether in season or out of season ; 
| and they often feel surprised and mortified 
| that their favorite subjects, in themselves not 
unfrequently well chosen, are received by oth- 
| ers withso cold a welcome. How many wor- 
| thy individuals, whose minds are richly stored, 
| and whose laudable desiré is to disseminate 
useful knowledge, entirely defeat their own 
ends by this want of adaptation; and many 
whose conversation might be both amusing 
and instructive, from this cause seldom meet 
| with a patient hearer. 

Old people are peculiarly liable to this er- 
ror; and it would be well to provide against 
the garrulity and wearisomeness of advanced 
age, by cultivating such powers of discrimi- 
nation as would enable us habitually to dis- 
cover what is acceptable, or otherwise, in 

conversation. 
|. It occasionally happens that the "mistress of 
| a house, the kind hospitable mistress, who 


body comfortable, is the very last person at 
the table, beside whom any of her guests 
would desire to be placed ; because they know 
that being once linked in with her intermina- |] 
ble chain of prattle, they will have no chance | 
of escape until the ladies rise to withdraw ; | 
and there are few who would not prefer 
quietly partaking of her soups and sauces, to 
hearing them described. Women of this de- | 
scription, having tired out everybody at home, 
and taught every ear to turn away, are vora- 
cious of attention when they can command 
it, or even that appearance of it which the 
visitor politely puts on. Charmed with the 
novelty of her situation in having caught a 
hearer, she makes the most of him. Warm- 
ing with her subject, and describing still more 
copiously, she looks into his face with an ex- | 
pression bordering on ecstasy ; and were it 
not that she considerately spares him the task 
of a rejoinder, his situation would be as in- 
tolerable as the common routine of table-talk 
could make it. 

In about the same class of agreeables with 
this good lady, might be placed the profuse 
teller of tales, whose natural flow of language 
and fertility of ideas leads her so far away 
from the original story, that neither the nar- 
rator nor the listener would be able to answer 
if suddenly inquired of—what the story was 
about. This is a very common fault among 
female talkers, whose versatility of mind and 
sensibility of feeling, render them peculiarly 
liable to be diverted from any definite object. 
It is only wonderful that the same quickness 
of apprehension does not teach them the im- 
possibility of obtaining hearers on such terms. 

Nor must we forget, among the abuses of 
conversation, the random talkers,—those who 
talk from impulse only, and rush upon you 
with whatever happens to be uppermost in | 
their own minds, or most pleasing to their | 
fancy at the time, without waiting to ascer- | 
tain whether the individual they address is | 
sad or merry,—at liberty to listen, or pre-oc- 
cupied with some weightier and more inter- | 
esting subject. | 

Whatever the topic of conversation, thus 


42 


obtruded upon society, may be, it is evident 
there must be a native obtuseness and vul- 
garity in the mind of the individual who thus 
offends, or she would wait before she spoke, 
to tune her voice to some degree of harmony 
with the feelings of those around her. 

Thus far we have noticed only the trifling 
abuses of conversation, and of such we have, 
perhaps already, had more than enough; 
though the catalogue might easily be contin- 
ued through as many volumes as it occupies 
pages here. There are other aspects more 
serious, under which the abuse of conversa- 
tion must be contemplated; and the first of 
these is—as it relates to carelessness or design 
in exercising its power to give pain. 

It is difficult to conceive that a deliberate 
desire to give pain could exist in any but the 
most malignant bosom; but habitual want of 
regard to what is painful to others, may easi- 
ly be the cause of inflicting upon them real 
misery. 

We have all observed—perhaps some of 
us felt, the sting of a taunting or an ill-timed 
jest ; and never is the suffering it occasions, 
or the effect it produces, so much to be re- 
gretted, as when it wrings sharp tears from 
the gentle eyes of childhood. Ye know not 
what ye do, might well be said to those who 
thus burn up the blossoms of youth, and send 
back the fresh, warm current of feeling to stag- 
nate at the heart. 

It would be impossible, even if such were 
our object, always to discover exactly when 
we did give pain; but surely it would bea 
study well worthy of a benevolent and en- 
lightened mind, to ascertain the fact with as 
much precision as we are capable of. What, 
for instance, do we feel on being called upon to 
sympathize with a young lady who is at the 
same moment pointed out to as one whose fa- 
ther a short time before had put an end to his 
existence, when the recollection simultaneous- 
ly flashes upon us, that during the whole of the 
past evening, we engaged the attention of the 
very same young lady with a detailed account 
of the melancholy scenes we had sometimes 
witnessed in an insane asylum? Yet, neither 
the pain inflicted by such conversation is 


CONVERSATION OF 


greater, nor is its carelessness more culpable 
in us, than is that of a large portion of the ill- 
judged, random speeches we give utterance to 
every day. 

Nor is it in c@mmon conversation that care- 
lessness of giving pain is felt so much, as in 
the necessary duties of advising and finding 
fault. Iam inclined to think no very agree- 
able way of telling people of their faults has 
ever yet been discovered ; but certainly there 
is a difference, as great as that which sepa- 
rates light from darkness, between reproof ju- 
diciously and injudiciously administered. By 
carelessness in not regulating our tones and 
looks and manner when reproving others, we 
may convey either too much or too little 
meaning, and thus defeat our own purposes ; 
we may even convey an impression the exact 
opposite of that designed, and awaken feel- 
ings of bitterness, revenge, and malignity in 
the mind of the individual we are solicitous 
to serve. 

Let no one therefore presume to do good, 
either by instruction or advice, unless they 
have learned something of the human heart. 
It may appear, on the first view of the sub- 
ject, a difficult and arduous study, but it is 
one that never can be begun too early or pur- 
sued too long. It is one also, in the pursuit 
of which women never need despair, as they 
possess the universal key of sympathy, by | 
which all hearts may be unlocked,—some, it 
is true, with considerable difficulty, and some 
but partially at last; yet, if the key be applied 
by a delicate and skilful hand, there is little 
doubt but some measure of success will re- | 
ward the endeavor. ; 

We have said before, and we again repeat, 
it is scarcely possible to believe that beings 
constituted as women are—kindly affectioned, 
and tenderly susceptible of pain themselves— 
should be capable of wantonly and designedly 
inflicting. pain upon others. Nature revolts 
from the thought. We look at the smile of 
beauty, and exclaim, “Impossible!” We 
pursue the benevolent visitant of the sick in 
her errands of mercy, and say, “It cannot 
be.” Yet, after all, we fear it must be charged 
upon the female sex, that they do assist occa. ||. 


re a tf 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


sionally in the circulation of petty scandal, and 
that it is not always from carelessness that they 
let slip the envenomed shaft, or speak dag- 
gers where they dare not usethem. Nor are 
the speakers alone to blame. The hearers 
ought at least to participate, for if the habit 
of depreciating character were discountenan- 
ced in society, it would soon cease to exist, or 
exist only in occasional attempts, to be defeat- 
ed as soon as made. 

Few women have the hardihood to confess 
that they delight in this kind of conversation. 
But let the experiment be made in mixed so- 
ciety, of course not under the influence of 
true religious feeling, though perhaps the 
party might be such as would feel a little 
scandalized at being told they were not. Let 
a clever and sarcastic woman take the field, 
not, professedly, to talk against her neighbors 
on her own authority, but to throw in the 
hearsay of the day, by way of spice to the 
general conversation; giving to a public man 
his private stigma—to an author his unsale- 
able book—to the rich man his trading ances- 
try—to the poor, his unquestionable impru- 
dence—to the beau, his borrowed plumes— 
and to the belle, her artificial bloom. We 
grant that this mass of poisoning matter 
thrown in at once, would be likely to offend 
the taste. It must, therefore, be skilfully pro- 
portioned, distributed with nice distinction, 
and dressed up with care. Will there not 
then be a large proportion of attentive listen- 
ers gathered round the speaker, smiling a 
ready assent to what they had themselves not 
dared to utter, and nodding as if in silent recog- 
nition of some fact they had previously been 
made acquainted with in a more private way? 

Now all this while there may be seated in 
another part of the room, a person whose 
sole business is to tell the good she knows, 
believes, or has heard of others. She is not 
a mere relater of facts, but equally talented, 
shrewd, and discriminating with the opposite 
party, only she is restricted to the detail of 
what is good. I simply ask, for I wish not 
to pursue the subject further, Which of these 
talkers will be likely to obtain the largest 
group of listeners ? 


43 


It is not, after all, by any consistent or de- 
termined attack upon character, that so much 
mischief is done, as by interlarding otherwise 
agreeable conversation with the sly hope of 
pretended charity—that certain things are 
not as they have been reported; or the kind 
wish that apparent merit was real, or might 
last. | 

English society is so happily constituted, 
that women have little temptation to any 
open vice. They must lose all respect for 
themselves, before they would venture so far 
to forget their respectability. But they have 
temptations as powerful to them, as open 
vice to others, and not the less so for being 
insidious. Who would believe that the pas- 
sions of envy, hatred, and revenge could lurk 
within the gentle bosom over which those 
folds of dove-colored drapery are falling? 
The lady has been prevailed upon to sing for 
the amusement of the company. Blushing 
and hesitating, she is just about to be led to 
the place of exhibition, when another move- 
ment, in a distant part of the room, where 
her own advance was not observed, has 
placed upon the seat of honor, a younger, 
and perhaps more lovely woman; and she 
lays open the very piece of music which the 
lady in the dove-like color had believed her- 
self the only person present who could sing. 
The musician charms the company. The 
next day, our dove hears of nothing but this 
exquisite performance ; and at last she is pro- 
voked to say, “ No wonder she plays so well, 
for I understand she does nothing else. Her 
mamma was ill the other day with a dreadful 
headache, and she played on, the whole after- 
noon, because she was going to a party in 
the evening, and wished to keep herself in 
practice.” 

Now, there is little in this single speech. 
It is almost too trifling for remark ; but it 
may serve as a specimen of thousands, which 
are no determined falsehoods, nay, possibly, 
no falsehoods at all, and yet originate in feel- 
ings as diametrically opposed to Christian 
meekness, love, and charity, as are the ma- 
lignant passions. of envy, hatred, and re- 
venge. 


44 CONVERSATION OF 


I must again repeat, that I know the. evil 
exists not in this individual act, but in the 
state of the heart where it originates; yet I 
write thus earnestly about seeming trifles, 
because I believe few young persons are suf- 
ficiently alive to their importance: because 
I know that the minor morals of domestic 
life exercise a vital influence over the well- 
being of society; and because the peace of 
whole families is sometimes destroyed by the 
outward observance of religious duty not be- 
ing supported by an equally strenuous ob- 
servance of these delicate but essential points. 

In studying the art, or rather the duty of 


being agreeable—a duty which all kindly-— 
| disposed persons will be anxious to observe— 
it is of importance to inquire, from whence | 
originate the errors here specified, with the 
long catalogue that might follow in their 


train? So far as they are confined to mis- 


apprehension of what is really agreeable, they | 
may be said to originate in the innate selfish- 
ness of our nature gaining the mastery over 


our judgment; beyond this, they originate in 
the evil propensities of the human heart, 
which when the influence of popular feeling 


operates against their exhibition in any gross — 


and palpable form, infuse themselves, as it 

were, into the very current of our existence, 

and poison all our secret springs of feeling. 
In order to correct the former, it is neces- 


sary that the judgment should be awakened. | 


But as habits of selfishness, long indulged, 
involve the understanding in a cloud too 
dense to be altogether dispelled, it is the more 
important that youth should be so trained as 
to acquire habits of constant and unremitting 
mental reference to the feelings and charac- 
ters of others; so that a quickness of percep- 
tion, almost like intuitive knowledge, shall 
enable them to carry out the kindly purposes 
they are taught to cherish, into the delicate 
and minute affairs of life, and thus render 
them the means not only of giving pleasure, 
but of warding off pain. 

It may appear a harsh conclusion to come 
to, that the little errors of conversation to 
which allusion has been made, and which 
are often conspicuous in what are called good 


sort of people, really owe their existence to 
selfishness; but it should be remembered, 
that to this assertion the writer is far from 
adding, that those who act with more tact, 
and avoid such errors, are necessarily free 
from the same fault. There may be a refined |, 
as well as a gross selfishness, and both may 
be equal in their intensity and power. 

But let us go back to the cases already 
specified. If the artist were not habitually 
more intent upon his own gratification than 
upon that of his companions, he would keep 
his hobby in the background, and allow him- 
self time to perceive that the attention of his 
companion was pre-occupied by subjects | 
more agreeable to him. The same may cer- 
tainly be said of the more common fault of 
making se/f the ruling topic of conversation ; |{ 
and this applies with equal truth to self-de- | 
preciation as to self-praise. 

The case is too clear and simple to need || 
further argument. It must be the habit of | 
acting from that first and most powerful im- | 
pulse of our nature, and just pouring forth | 
the fulness of our own hearts, discharging | 
our own imagination of its load, and empty- |; 
ing the storehouse of our own memory, with- 
out regard to fitness or preparation in the 
soil upon which the seed may fall, or the 
harvest it is likely to produce, that renders | 
conversation sometimes tasteless and vapid, | 
and sometimes inexpressibly annoying. 

The weightier responsibilities which attach | 
to the talent of conversation, do not appear |} 
to fall directly within the compass of a work | 
expressly devoted to the morals of domestic | 
life. It is, however, a fact of great import- 
ance to establish, that a woman’s private con- | 
versation—for in public they converse too | 
much alike—is the surest evidence of her | 
mind being imbued or not imbued with just | 
and religious principles ; that where it is uni- 
formly trifling, there can be no predominating | 
desire to promote the interests of religion in | 
the world; and where, on the other hand, it 
is uniformly solemn and sedate, it is ill-calcu- 
lated to recommend the course it would ad-— 
vocate with effect; that where it abounds in 
sarcasm, invective, and abuse, even of wha‘ is | 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


45 


evil, it never emanates from a mind in per- 
fect unison with what is good; and that 
where it is always smooth, and sweet, and 

' complacent, it must be deficient in one of the 
grand uses of conversation—its correction 
and reproof: finally, that where it is carried 
on in public or in private, without the least 
desire to elicit truth, to correct mistakes in 
relation or opinion, to establish principle, to 
disseminate useful knowledge, to warn of’ 
danger, or to perform that most difficult but 
most important of all duties—to correct the 
faults of friends—there must be something 
wrong at the heart’s core, from whence this 
waste of words is flowing: and sad will be 
the final account, if, for each day of a length- 
ened existence upon earth, this great engine 
of moral good and evil has been thus per- 
forming its fruitless labor—for time, without 
an object; for eternity, without reward. 


CHAPTER VI. 


CONVERSATION. 


Ir may appear somewhat paradoxical to 
commence a chapter on the uses of conver- 
sation, by pointing out the uses of being silent; 
yet such is the importance to a woman, of 
knowing exactly when to cease from conver- 
sation, and when to withhold it altogether, 
that the silence of the female sex seems to 
have become proverbially synonymous with 
a degree of merit almost too great to be be- 
lieved in asafact. There could be no agree- 
able conversation carried on, if there were no 
good listeners ; and from her position in socie- 
ty, it is the peculiar province of a woman, 
rather to lead others out into animated and 
intelligent communication, than to be intent 
upon making communications from the re- 
sources of her own mind. 

Besides this, there are times when men, 
especially if they are of moody temperament, 
are more offended, and annoyed by being 
talked to, than they could be by the greatest 


personal affront from the same quarter; and 
a woman of taste will readily detect the for- 
bidding frown, the close-shut lips, and the 
averted eye, which indicate a determination 
not to be drawn out. She will then find op- 
portunity for the indulgence of those secret 
trains of thought and feeling which naturally 
arise in every human mind; and while she 
plies her busy needle, and sists quietly mus- 
ing by the side of her husband, her father, or 
her brother, she may be adding fresh mate- 
rials from the world of thought to that fund 
of conversational amusement, which she is 
ever ready to bring forward for their use. 

By the art of conversation, therefore, as I 
am about to treat the subject in the present 
chapter, I would by no means be understood 
to mean the mere act of talking, but that cul- 
tivation and exercise of the conversational 
powers which is most conducive to social 
enjoyment, and most productive of beneficial 
influence upon our fellow-creatures. 

I have already asserted of conversation, 
that it is a fruitful source of human happi- 
ness and misery, a powerful engine of moral 
good and evil, and few, 1 should suppose, 
would deny the truth of this assertion. Yet, 
notwithstanding the prevalence of this con- 
viction, the art of conversation is seldom or 
never cultivated as a branch of modern edu- 
cation. It is true, the youthful mind is stim- 
ulated into early and immature expansion ; 
and the youthful memory is stored with facts, 
but the young student, released from the 
trammels of school discipline, is thrown upon 
society in a state of total ignorance of the 
means of imparting her knowledge so as to 
render it available in raising the general tone 
of conversation ; and the consequence most- 
ly is, she is so engrossed by the new life into 
which she is suddenly introduced, and so oc- 
cupied in learning what must be acquired 
before she can make any respectable figure 
in what is called society, that she closes the 
door upon the storehouse she has spent so 
many years of her life in filling ; and finding 
little use for the materials accumulated there, 
is only known in after years to have hada 
good education, by hearing her occasionally 


a 
a en 


- AR RR A RR A A NS A A SE SS Gt RR 


| 46 


CONVERSATION OF 


exclaim—*I learned all about that at school, | 
but have entirely forgotten it since.” 

The English woman, whose peculiar part 
it is to blend all that is productive of benefit 
in her intellectual powers, with all that is 
conducive to happiness in her affections, 
would do well to give her attention as early 
as possible to the uses of conversation; and 
if a system could be formed for teaching 
some of the simple rules of conversation as 
an art, it would be found more advantageous 
to women in their social capacity, than many 
of the branches of learning which they now 
spend years in acquiring. 

To converse by rule has indeed a startling 
sound, and few, we are apt to conclude, ona 
slight consideration of the subject, would re- 
commend themselves by such a_ process. 
The same conclusion, however, is always 
rushed upon by the young genius who first 
begins to try her skill in the sister arts of 
painting and poetry, yet, in proceeding, she 
finds at every step, that there must bea rule, a 
plan, a system, or that genius, with all her pro- 
fusion of materials, willbe unable to form them 
into such a whole as will afford pleasure even 
to the most uninitiated. 

I am aware I incur some risk of being 
charged both with ignorance and enthusiasm, 
when I express my belief that the art of con- 
versation might in some measure be reduced 
to a system taught in our schools, and render- 
ed an important part of female education ; 
but Tam not aware that my belief can be 
proved to be ill-founded until the experiment 
has been fairly tried. 

Let an individual who has never heard of 
botany go forth into one of our English mead- 
ows in the month of June, and gaze upon 
the luxuriance of flowers, and leaves, and 
shooting stems, which there would meet his 
eye. Tell him that all these distinct and sep- 
arate plants have been classed, and resolved 
into their appropriate orders, and he will ex- 
claim, “ Impossible ! it cannot be.” 

I must allow that the case is not, strictly 
speaking, a similar one. There are difficul- 
ties of no trifling magnitude in reducing the 
faculties of the human mind to any thing 


Se ra arn pn REnnnieenemeee ene =e ee 


like order, and in laying down rules for the | 
promotion of human happiness, except on the — 


broad scale of moral philosophy. But let the 
two cases be fairly tried, and I am still un- 
convinced that the most apparently imprac- 
ticable would not be attended with a measure 
of success. 

If we consider the number of books that 
have been written on the subject of botany, 
the number of lectures that have been deliv- 
ered, the number of years it has been taught, 
and the number of wise men who have made 
it their chief study; and if in comparison 
with a subject upon which such vast machi- 
nery of mind has been brought to operate, 
we do but mention that of Conversation, to 
which no one entire volume has, perhaps, 
ever yet been devoted, a smile of derision 
will most probably be the only notice our ob- 
servation will excite. 

I would not be understood to speak lightly 
of a knowledge of botany, or to depreciate 
the value of any other science. All I would 
maintain is this, that to know every thing that 
can be known in art and nature, is of little 
value to a woman, if she has not at the same 
time learned to communicate her knowledge 
in such a manner as to render it agreeable 
and serviceable to others. | 


A woman does not converse more agreea- |} 
bly, because she is able to define botanically |} 
the difference between a rose and a butter- | 
cup, though it may be desirable to be able to | 


do so when asked; but because she has a 
quick insight into character, has tact to select 
the subjects of conversation best suited to her 


auditors, and to pursue them just so long as |} 


they excite interest, and engage attention. 
With regard to the art of conversation, 
therefore, adaptation may be laid down as 
the primary rule—vivacity, or rather fresh- 
ness, the second—and the establishment of a 
fact, or the deduction of a moral, the third. 
Why should not the leisure hours at school 
be filled up by the practice of these rules, 
not only asa recreation, but as a pleasing art, 
in which it would be much to the advantage 
of every woman to excel? Why should not 
the mistress of the school devote her time 


| 


——— \ 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


| occasionally to the exercise of this art in the 
| midst of her pupils, who might by her win- 
| ning manners be invited in their turn to prac- 

tise upon her? And why should not some 
| plan be invented for encouraging the same 
exercise among the junior members of the 
establishment? Each girl, for instance, might 
be appointed for a day or a week, the con- 
verser with, or entertainer of, one of her fel- 
low-students, taking all in rotation ; so that 
in their hours of leisure it should be her busi- 
ness to devote herself to her companion, as 
it is that of a host to a guest. A report 
should then be given in at the expiration of 
the day or week, by the girl whose part it 
was to be conversed with, and by encourag- 
ing her to state whether she has been annoy- 
ed or interested, wearied or amused, in the 
presence of her companion, who should in 
her turn have the liberty of commending or 
complaining of her as an attentive or inat- 
tentive listener, a good or bad responder, 
such habits of candor and sincerity would 
be cultivated, as are of essential service in 
the formation of the moral character. 

The practice of this art, as here recom- 
mended, would not necessarily be restricted 
in its operation to any particular number. 
Those who attained the greatest proficiency 
might extend their conversational powers to 
other members of the establishment; and 
thus might be constituted little amicable socie- 
ties, in which all the faculties most likely to 
recommend the young students in their future 
association with the world, would be called 
into exercise, and rendered conducive to the 
general good. 

To the class of women chiefly referred to 
in this work, it is perhaps most important 
that they should be able to converse with in- 
terest and effect. A large portion of their 
time is spent in the useful labor of the needle, 
an. occupation which of all others requires 
something to vary its monotony, and render 
less irksome its seemingly interminable dura- 
tion; they are frequently employed in nursing 
the sick, when appropriate and well-timed 
conversation may occasionally beguile the 
sufferer into forgetfulness of pain; and they 


AT 


are also much at home—at their humble, 
quiet homes—where excitement from extra~ 
neous causes seldom comes, and where, if 
they are unacquainted with the art, and un- 
initiated in the practice of conversation, their 
days are indeed heavy, and their evenings 
worse than dull. 

The women of England are not only pe- 
culiarly in need of ‘this delightful relaxation | 
to blend with their daily cares; but, until the 
late rapid increase of superficial refinement, 
they were adapted, by their habits and mode 
of. life, for cultivating their conversational 
powers in a very high degree. Their time 
was not occupied by the artificial embellish- 


ments of polished life, they were thrown di- 


rectly upon their own resources for substan- 
tial comfort, and thus they acquired a founda- 
tion of character which rendered their con- 
versation sensible, original, and full of point. 
It is greatly to be apprehended that the in- 
creased facilities for imparting instruction in 
the present day, have not produced a pro- 
portionate increase in the facilities of con- 
versing ; and it is well worthy the attention 
of those who give their time and thoughts to 
the invention of improved means of dissem- 
inating knowledge, to inquire what is the best 
method of doing this by conversation as. well 
as_ by books. 

It is not, however, strictly speaking, in 
imparting a knowledge of general facts, that 
the highest use of conversation consists. 
General facts may be recorded in books, and 
books may be circulated to the remotest range 
of civilized society; but there are delicate 
touches of feeling too evanescent to bear the | 
impress of any tangible character ; there are 
mental and spiritual appliances, that must 
be immediate to be available; and who has 
not known the time when they would have 
given the wealth of worlds for the power to 
unburden their full hearts before the moment 
of acceptance should be gone, or the atten- 
tive ear be closed for ever ? 

The difficulty is seldom so great in know- 
ing what ought to be said, as in knowing 
how to speak, what mode of expression 
would be most acceptable, or what turn the 


| 48 


CONVERSATION OF 


conversation ought to take, so as best to in- 
troduce the point in question. 
Nor is the management of the voice an 


unimportant branch of this art. There are 


never-to-be-forgotten tones, with which some . 


cruel word has been accompanied, that have 
impressed themselves upon every heart; 
and there are also tones of kindness equally 
indelible, which had, perhaps, more influence 
at the time they were heard, than the lan- 
guage they were employed to convey. “It 
was not what she said, but the tone of voice 
in which she spoke,” is the complaint of 
many a wounded spirit; and welcome and 
soothing to the listening ear is every tone 
that tells of hope and gladness. 

There is scarcely any source of enjoyment 
more immediately connected at once with 
the heart and with the mind, than that of 
listening to a sensible and amiable woman 
when she converses in a melodious and well- 
regulated voice, when her language and pro- 
nunciation are easy and correct, and when 
she knows how to adapt her conversation to 
the characters and habits of those around 
her. 

Women, considered in their distinct and 
abstract nature, as isolated beings, must lose 
more than half their worth. They are, in 
fact, from their own constitution, and from 
the station they occupy in the world, strictly 
speaking, relative creatures. If, therefore, 
they are endowed only with such faculties, 
as render them striking and distinguished in 
themselves, without the faculty of instru- 
mentality, they are only as dead letters in 
the volume of human life, filling what would 
otherwise be a blank space, but doing nothing 
more. 

All the knowledge in the world, therefore, 
without an easy and felicitous method of con- 
veying it to others, would be but a profitless 
possession to a woman; while a very infe- 
rior portion of knowledge, with this method, 
might render her an interesting and delight- 
ful companion. 

None need despair, then, if shut out by 
homely avocations, by straitened means, or 
by other unavoidable causes, from learning 


es 


all the lessons taught at school; for there 
are lessons to be learned at home, around 
the domestic hearth, and even in the ob- 
scurity of rural life, perhaps of more im- 
portance, in the summing-up of human hap- 
piness. 

One of the popular uses of conversation 
is, to pass away time without being conscious 
of its duration; and, unworthy as this object 
unquestionably is, the fact that conversation 
is employed more than any other means for 
such a purpose, is a convincing proof of its 
importance and its power. 

It is so natural to converse, that one of the 
severest punishments inflicted upon degraded 
human nature, is that of being denied the 
liberty of speech. How desirable is it, then, 
that what is done every hour in all classes of 
society, and under almost every variety of 
circumstance, should be done for some good 
purpose, and done in the best possible man- 
ner ly 

To converse well in company, is a point of 
ambition with many women, and few are in- 
sensible to the homage paid by the most sin- 
cere of all flatterers—a group of attentive 
listeners. So far as this talent enables a wo- 
man of elevated mind to give a higher tone 
to conversation in general, it is indeed a val- 
uable gift; but that of being able to converse 
in an agreeable and appropriate manner in a 
sick-room, with an aged parent or distressed 
relative, or with a friend in delicate and try- 
ing circumstances, is a gift of far higher and 
more ennobling character. 

I have already remarked, that attendance | 
upon the sick is one of the most frequent and 
familiar, at the same time that it is one of the 
most sacred, of the duties devolving upon 
the class of women here described. It is 
much to be able, gently and skilfully, to 
smooth the pillow for the aching head, to ad- 
minister the cordial draught, to guide the fee- 
ble steps, and to watch through the sleepless 
and protracted hours of night. But these are 
services rendered only to the suffering body. 
The mind—the unextinguishable mind, may 
all the while be sorely in need of the oil with 
which its waning lamp should still be trim- 


Y Vi: LH. 


ye Me 


7 


Mh. 


Z 


Md. 


4 
oA 


a WH Lb 


# 


os 
ne 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


med. And how shall this be administered ? 
The practised nurses hired for the occasion 
make rude and ill-advised attempts to raise 
the drooping spirits of the patient by their 
vulgar pleasantry ; books are too wearisome, 
and tell only of far-off and by-gone things, 
when the whcle interest of the sufferer is 
concentrated into the present moment, and 
fixed upon himeelf. | 

It happens more frequently and more hap- 
pily among the middle classes in England, 
that nurses and domestics cannot well be 
hired, and that the chief attention required 
by the patient devolves upon the females of 
the family. How differently in this case is 
the sufferer dealt with! There is no appear- 
ance of coming in expressly to converse with 
him; but while a gentle and kind-hearted 
woman steals with noiseless tread about the 
room, arranging every article of comfort, and 
giving to the whole apartment an air of re- 
freshment or repose, she is watching every 
indication of an opening for conversation, 
that may beguile the lingering hours of their 
tediousness, and lead the sufferer to forget 
his pain. There are moments, even in sea- 
sons of sickness, when a little well-timed 
pleasantry is far from being unacceptable. 
She watches for these, and turns them to ac- 
count, by going just so far in her playfulness, 
as the exhausted frame can bear without in- 
jury. «When sympathy is called for, as it is 
on such occasions almost unceasingly, she 
yields it freely and fully, though not to any 
prolonged extent, as regards the case imme- 
diately under her care; but continuing the 
same tone and manner, and with evidently 
the same feeling, she speaks of other cases of 
suffering, of some friend or neighbor; and 
the more recent and immediate the instances, 
the more likely they will be to divert the 
mind of the patient from himself. These, of 
course, are not breught forward with any 
thing like a taunting insinuation that the pa- 
tient is not worse than others, but simply as 
if her own mind was full of the impression 
they are calulated to excite; and by these 
means, suiting her voice and her counte- 
nance to the facts she is relating, she invests 


49 


them with an interest which even to the sel- 
fish invalid is irresistible. 

Varying with every change in the temper 
and mood of the patient, her conversation 
assumes every variety that is calculated to 
please, always subdued and kept under by 
such delicate touches of feeling, such intense 
watchfuiness, and such lively sensibility, that 
the faintest shadow cannot pass across the 
aching brow, nor the slightest indication of a 
smile across the lips, but it serves as an in- 
dex for her either to change the subject of 
her discourse, to be silent or to proceed. 
There is along with all this a kindness in her 
voice which no pen was ever so eloquent as 
to describe ; and there are moments of ap- 
pealing weakness on the part of the invalid,. 
when she pours forth the full tide of her af- 
fection in language that prosperity and health 
would never have taught her how to use. 

Beyond these seasons of intercourse, how- 
ever, and of far deeper value, are those in 
which the burdened soul of him who feels 


himself to be fast hastening to the confines 


of eternity, will sometimes seek a human ear 
for the utterance of its anxieties and fears, 
and appeal to a human heart for counsel in 
its hours of need. It may be that the indi- 
vidual has never been accustomed to con- 
verse on these subjects—knows not how to 
begin—and is ashamed to condemn, as he 
feels that he must do, the whole of his past 
life. Who then, but the friend who has been 
near him in all his recent humiliations and 
trials, who has shared them both to her very 
utmost, and thus obtained his confidence,— 
who but his patient and untiring nurse can 
mark and understand the struggle of his 
feelings, and lead them forth by partial an- 
ticipations, so gently that he is neither pained 
nor humbled by the whole confession. 
Perchance it is at the hour of midnight, 
when fever gives him strength, and darkness 
hides his countenance, and he hears the 
sweet tones of that encouraging voice now 
modulated to the expression of a sympathy 
the most intense, and a love that. many wa- 
ters could not quench. There is no surprise 
in her rejoinder, when at last his lips have 


spoken what he could not utter by the light 
of day, but a few simple words, more like 
those of recognition of what she had known 
before, and of what it is the lot of many to 
experience ; and then, if ever, is the golden 
moment when the power to speak without 
wounding, and yet to speak home, is indeed 
an inestimable gift. 

It is true that suitable and salutary words 
might be written out for some such occa- 
sion; but so differently constituted are hu- 
man minds, that the same words would 
scarcely prove suitable and salutary to any 
two individuals, out of the countless myriads 
who throng the peopled earth. 

Nor is the chamber of sickness the only 
situation in which the power of conversing 
easily and appropriately is of inestimable 
value. There are other cases of trial, of 
suffering, and of anxious solicitude, in which 
the mind would prey upon itself, even to the 
injury of the bodily frame, if not diverted 
from its object, and beguiled by pleasant con- 
versation. 

In seasons of protracted endurance, when 
some anticipated crisis, of immeasurable good 
or evil, comes not at the expected time, and 
every fresh disappointment only adds to the 
feverish restlessness which no human consti- 
tution is strong enough to sustain unharmed ; 
what amusement could be devised for such a 
time, at all comparable to interesting and ju- 
dicious conversation, gently touching upon 
the exciting theme, and then leading off by 
some of those innumerable channels which 
woman’s ingenuity is so quick to discover, 
and so apt to make use of for purposes of 
generosity and kindness? 

There are fireside scenes, too, of frequent 
and familiar occurrence, in which this femi- 
nine faculty may be rendered more service- 
able than all other accomplishments—scenes 
that derive no sadness from acute or lively 
suffering, but are yet characterized by an in- 
expressible kind of melancholy, arising from 
the moodiness of man, or the perverseness 
of woman, or, perhaps, from a combination 
of domestic disagreeables attaching to every 
member of the family, and forming over their 


50 CONVERSATION OF 


better feelings a sort of incrustation, that must 
be dissolved or broken through before any 
thing like cheerfulness can shine forth. 

There is, perhaps, more real sadness aris- 
ing from causes like this, than from the more 
definite misfortunes with which we are visit- 
ed; and not sadness only, but a kind of re- 
sentment bordering on secret malignity, as if 
each member of the family had poisoned the 
happiness of the others; and looks are di- 
rected askance, books are opened, and their 
leaves are methodically folded over; and yet 
the long dull evening will not wear away. 

How like a ministering angel then is the |, 
woman, who, looking off from her work, di- 
rects her conversation to that member of the 
family who appears most accessible, and 
having gained his attention, gives the sub- 
ject such a turn as to draw the attention of 
another, and perhaps a third, until all at last, 
without being aware of it, have joined in con- 
versing on the same topic, and the close of 
the evening finds them mutually agreeable to 
each other. On such occasions, it is by no 
means an insignificant attainment to be able 
to awaken a laugh; for if two or three can 
be brought to laugh together, the incrustation 
is effectually broken, and they will be good 
friends without further effort. 

I know it would be fruitless to lay down 
any minute and specific rules for conversa- 
tion, because none could be acted upon safely 
without strict reference to the object upon 
which they might be brought to bear. Yet || 
it may be said to be a rule almost without 
exception, that all persons are pleased to be 
talked about themselves, their own affairs, 
and their own connections, provided only it 
is done with judgment, delicacy and tact. 
When all other topics have been tried with- 
out effect, this will seldom be found to fail. 
Not, certainly, pursued upon what is de- 
scribed as the American plan, of decided in- 
quisitiveness, but by remote allusions, and 
frequent recurrence to what has already been 
drawn forth, making it the foundation for 
greater confidence, and more definite com- 
munication. 

That species of universal politeness, which 


THE WOMEN 


prompts inquiry after the relations of the 
stranger or the guest, appears to be founded 
upon this principle, occurring, as it so fre- 
quently does, where there can be no possible 
interest on the part of the inquirer. 

It is not, however, for the purpose of pre- 
tending to that which does not really exist, 
that conversation can be recommended as an 
art, but simply for facilitating the, expression 
of feelings which could not be so well ex- 
plained by a more direct assurance of their 
nature and existence. 

When a stranger from a distance—perhaps 
an orphan, or one who is compelled by ad- 
verse circumstances to seek the means of 
pecuniary support—comes to take up her 
abode in a family, no member of which she 
has ever seen before, by what means can the 
mother or the mistress of it make her feel 
that she is at home? She may tell her in 
plain words that she is disposed to make her 
comfortable, but it will touch with infinitely 
more force the heart of the stranger, if, with 


; a countenance of kindly interest, she makes 


frequent and delicate mention of her friends, 
of her brothers or sisters, or other near rela- 
tions, or even of the part of the world in 
which she has been accustomed to reside. 
This kind of mention, frequently bestowed 
with gentleness, and evident regard to the 
facts it elicits or the confidence it draws forth, 
will be much more effectual in gaining the 
desired end, than the warmest expressions of 
affectionate solicitude for the stranger herself. 

I know \that conversation, simply studied 
as an art, without right motives for its exer- 
cise, will be found of little benefit, either to 
society, or to the individuals who practise it. 
All I would maintain is, that it may be made 
the medium of conferring happiness—the in- 
strument of doing good—and that to a great- 
er extent than any other accomplishment in 
which woman can excel. For want of facility 
in speaking appropriately, how much good 
feeling is lost to the world, buried in the bo- 
som where it originates, and where it be- 
comes a burden and a load, from the very 
consciousness of inability to make it under- 
stood and felt! 


OF ENGLAND. 


ol 


How often do we hear the bitterest lamen- 
tations to this effect—“If I could but have 
told her what I felt—if I could but have ad- 
dressed her appropriately at the time—if I 
had but known how to make the conversa- 
tion lead to the point ; but now the time has 
passed, and I may never have so suitable an 
opportunity again.” 

Besides the cases already described, there 
are some darker passages in human life, 
when women are thrown upon the actual 
charm of their conversation, for rendering 
more alluring the home that is not valued as 
it should be. Perhapsa husband has learned 
before his marriage the fatal habit of seeking 
recreation in_scenes of excitement and con- 
vivial mirth. It is but natural that such 
habits should with difficulty be broken off, 
and that he should look with something like 
weariness upon the quiet and monotony of 
his own fireside. Music cannot always 
please, and books to such a man are a taste- 
less substitute for the evening party. He 
may possibly admire his wife, consider her 
extremely good-looking, and, for a woman, 
think her very pleasant; but the sobriety of 
matrimony palls upon his vitiated taste, and 
he longs to feel himself a free man again 
among his old associates. 

Nothing would disgust this man so much, 
or drive him away so effectually, as any as- | 
sumption on the part of his wife, of a right 
to detain him. The next most injudicious 
thing she could do, would be to exhibit symp- 
toms of grief—of real sorrow and distress at 
his leaving her; for whatever may be said in 
novels on the subject of beauty in tears, 
seems to be rendered null and void by the 


circumstance of marriage having taken place 


between the parties. 

The rational woman, whose conversation 
on this occasion is to serve her purpose more 
effectually than tears, knows better than to 
speak of what her husband would probably 
consider a most unreasonable subject of com- 
plaint. She tries to recollect some incident, 


some trait of character, or some anecdote of 
what has lately occurred within her know- 
ledge, and relates it in her most lively and 


| CONVERSATION OF 


If conscious of beauty, she 


piquant manner. 
tries a little raillery, and plays gently upon 
some of her husband’s not unpleasing pecu- 
liarities, looking all the while as disengaged 


and unsuspecting as she can. If his atten- 
tion becomes fixed, she gives her conversa- 
tion a more serious turn, and plunges at once 
into some theme of deep and absorbing in- 
terest. If her companion grows restless, she 
changes the subject, and again recollects 
something laughable to relate to him. Yet 
all the while her own poor heart is aching 
with the feverish anxiety that vacillates be- 
tween the extremes of hope and fear. She 
gains courage, however, as time steals on, for 
her husband is by her side; and with her 
increasing courage her spirits become exhila- 
rated, and she is indeed the happy woman 
she has hitherto but appeared—for at last 
her husband looks at his watch, is astonished 
to find it is too late to join his friends, and, 
while the evening closes in, he wonders 
whether any other man has a wife so de- 
lightful and entertaining as his own. 

Again, there is a class of beings, unfortu- 
nately for themselves, not always welcomed 
into good society, and yet severely blamed 
for seeking bad—a nondescript species of 
humanity, not properly called boys nor worth- 
ily called men, who are, above all other crea- 
tures, the most difficult to converse with. 
They seem, in fact, to be discarded from so- 
ciety; for old women are afraid of them, 
while young ones pronounce them bores,— 
and old men seem uniformly inclined to put 
them down, while young ones do little to 
raise them up. Yet in these very individu- 
als, during this season of incipient manhood, 
the character of the future statesman or citi- 
zen, father or friend, is undergoing the pro- 
cess of formation ; and all the while, the step 
that owes half its fleetness to the hope of 
leaving care and sorrow in the distance, 


bounds on with triumphant recklessness, be- 


cause there is no friendly voice to arrest its 
progress or direct its course. 
Who takes the trouble to converse with a 


| youth of this description, for we confess it is 
a trouble, except where. personal affection | tempt to make a figure in it if she did. Her 


prompts the act? Is there not one who will 
kindly endeavor to make the young heart 
confess itself,—for a heart there must be un- 
der all this rude and turbulent exterior? 
Yes, there is one. The reckless boy, after 
receiving a thousand insults—after having 
been elbowed off by one, pushed away bya 
second, and made game of by a third, comes 
home to his mother, and finds that his own 
fireside is indeed the happiest place on earth 
to him. His mother does what no one else 
will condescend to do: she converses with 
him—she treats him like a rational being. 
Interested in his amusements because they 
are his, she talks to him about his sports, his 
companions, and all the minutie that fill up 
his daily life, anticipating all the while such 
feelings and sentiments as she believes him 
to possess, or at least gives him credit for, 
and thus leads. him to confess; while the 
boy, feeling within himself the dawning of a 
brighter epoch in his existence, the stirring 
up of half-formed thoughts ahout to be ma- 
tured, is happy and grateful to be thus en- 
couraged to speak freely, and to be his better 
self. 

Of evenings spent in this manner, who 
shall estimate the value, remembered as they 
often are in after life, and blended as they 
safely may be with that portion of self-re- 
spect which is always found to support the 
persevering, the upright, and the truly great? 

The cases already mentioned, serve but as 
specimens of the mass of evidence that might 
be brought forward in favor of the utility of 
conversation judiciously carried on: what, 
then, must be said of the responsibility of 
those who possess this talent in its highest 
perfection, and either neglect to use it for any 
laudable purpose, or devote it to a bad one? 

It seems to be too much the opinion of 
people in general, that agreeable conversa- 
tion, like many other agreeable things, is only 
to be used for the benefit of guests and 
strangers. The truly English, domestic, and 
fireside companion has a higher estimate of 
this talent. She knows little of what is called 
the world, and would be too diffident to at- 


© 


———— 
= f 


= 


world is her home; and here, on days of la- 

| borious duty, as well as on days of pleasure, 

—when the family circle are met around 

their homely hearth, as well as when the dis- 

tinguished guest is with them—it is her chief 

delight to beguile what might otherwise be to 

them heavy hours, with cheerful conversa- 

tion. It is to her parents, her husband, her 

brothers, and her sisters, as well as to her in- 

timate friends, that she is the entertaining 

and instructive companion, adapting herself 

to their different moods and temperaments, 

leading forth their thoughts beyond them- 

| selves, and raising them above the sordid 

and vexatious cares of every-day existence, 

until her voice becomes the music of her 

home, and her presence the charm that unites 

the different members of her household in a 
sacred bond of fellowship and peace. 

The power of conversing well, presents a 
great temptation to a vain woman to use it 
for the gratification of her self-complacency. 
As there are few of the minor circumstances 
of life more mortifying than to find, that 
when you speak, no one listens to the end 
of your story or remark ; so there is no kind 
of flattery more irresistible than to find that 
your conversation gathers hearers, more and 
more; and women are but too quick to de- 
tect the interest they excite depicted upon 
every face. 

There is, however, a wide difference be- 
tween the moral state of the woman who 
converses well in company, solely for the 
sake of obtaining admiration, and of her who 
converses well for the sake of making the 
time pass pleasantly or profitably to others. 
The former will be sure to be found among 
the gentlemen, especially if she be pleasing in 
her appearance, and she will have wholly 

overlooked the neglected or insignificant in- 
dividuals of her own sex, who may happen 
to have been present. The other will have 
sought out the silent stranger—the poor rela- 
tion—the plain woman—and all the most in- 
significant or unnoticed persons in the party. 
Especially she will have devoted herself to 
her own sex, and afforded to the company 

that rare, but noble illustration of female be- 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


53 


nevolence—a fascinating Woman in company 
choosing to make herself agreeable to women. 

If any action arising from vanity could be 
either commendable or great, I am disposed 
to think it would be so, for a woman to show 
that she could afford to tear herself away 
from. the attentions of men, and devote her 
powers of pleasing to her own sex. The 
woman we have described, however, has 
feelings of a higher order. Her object is to 
use every gift she possesses for the happiness 
or the benefit of her fellow-creatures, and 
her benevolence prompts her to seek out 
those who are most in need of kindness and 
consideration. Forgetful of herself, she re- 
gards her ability to please as one of the tal- 
ents committed to her trust, for the employ- 
ment of which she must render an account 
at that awful tribunal where no selfish plea 
will be admitted. And thus she cultivates 
the art of conversation for the sake of in- 


creasing her usefulness, of consoling the dis- 


tressed, of instructing the ignorant, and of 
beguiling of half their heaviness the neces- 
sary cares of life. 


CHAPTER VII. 


DOMESTIC HABITS,—CONSIDERATION AND KIND- 
NESS. 


On entering upon the subject of the do- 
mestic habits of the women of England, I 
feel the necessity of bearing in mind that all 
individuals in the middle class of society, 
and even all who are connected with trade, 
are by no means under the same obligations 
to regard their own personal exertions asa 
duty. So far from this, there are unques- 
tionably many in this class who would be 
entirely out of their province, were they to 
engage in the manual occupations of their 
families and households. The possession of 
wealth has placed them, in these respects, on 
the same footing with the nobility, and they 
have, without doubt, an equal right to enjoy 
the luxuries which wealth can procure. I 


54 


am, however, no less convinced that the ab- 
sence of all necessity for personal exertion is 
a disadvantage to them, and that their hap- 
piness would be increased, if their situations 
in life were such as to present more impera- 
tive claims upon their individual services. 

The virtue of considerateness refers strictly 
to the characters and circumstances of those 
around us. From the mistress of half a dozen 
servants, therefore, the same kind of consid- 
eration can never be required, as from the 
mistress of one: nor can the lady of a man- 
sion, even though her husband should be en- 
gaged in trade, feel herself called to the same 
duties as the farmer’s wife. 

The considerateness I shall attempt to de- 
fine is one of the highest recommendations 
the female character can possess ; because it 
combines an habitual examination of our own 
situation and responsibilities, with a quick 
discernment of the character and feelings of 
those around us, and a benevolent desire to 
afford them as much pleasure, and spare 
them as much pain, as we can. A consider- 
ate woman therefore, whether surrounded 
by all appliances and means of personal en- 
joyment, or depending upon the use of her 
own hands for the daily comforts of life, will 
look around her, and consider what is due to 
those whom Providence has placed within 
the sphere of her influence. 

The man who voluntarily undertakes a 
difficult and responsible business, first in- 
quires how it is to be conducted so as best 
to ensure success: so the serious and 
thoughtful woman, on entering upon the du- 
ties of domestic life, ascertains, by reflection 
and observation, in what manner they may 
be performed so as to render them most con- 
ducive to the great end she has in view, the 
promotion of the happiness of others; and 
as the man engaged in business does not run 
hither and thither, simply to make a show of 
alacrity, neither does the woman engaged in 
a higher and more important work, allow 
herself to be satisfied with her own willing- 
| ness to do her duty without a diligent and 
persevering investigation of what are the 
most effectual means by which it can be done. 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


Me ssh ei hs ake acetate a eS 


Women arealmost universally admonished 
of their duties in general terms, and hence 
they labor under great disadvautages. They 
are told to be virtuous; and in order to be 
so, they are advised to be kind and modest, 
orderly and discreet. But few teachers, and 
fewer writers, condescend to take up the mi- 
nutie of every-day existence, so far as to ex- 
plain in what distinct and individual actions 
such kindness, modesty, order, and discretion 
consist. Indeed, the cases themselves upon 
which these principles of right conduct are 
generally brought to. bear, are so minute, and 
so apparently insignificant, that the writer 
who takes up this subject must not only be 
content to sacrifice all the dignity of author- 
ship, but must submit occasionally to a smile 
of contempt for having filled a book with 
trifles. 

In order, however, to ascertain the real im- 
portance of any point of merit, we should take 
into consideration its direct opposite. We 
never know the value of true kindness, so 
much as when contrasted with unkindness ; 
and lest any one should think lightly of the 
virtue of consideration as a moral faculty, let 
us turn our attention to the character and 
habits of a woman who is without it. Such 
are not difficult to find, and we find them often 
in the lovely, and the seemingly amiable crea- 
tures of impulse, who rush about, with the 
impetus of the moment operating as their 
plea, uncontrollable affection their excuse, and 
selfishness, unknown to them, the moving 
spring at the bottom of their hearts. ‘These 
individuals believe themselves to be so entirely 
governed by amiable feelings, that they not 
unfrequently boast of being kind—nay, too, 


kind-hearted: but upon whom does their 


kindness tell, except upon themselves? It is 
true, they feel the impulse to be kind, and 
this impulse they gratify by allowing it to 
operate in any way that circumstances, or 
their own caprice, may point out. Yet, after 
all, how often is their kindness, for want of 
consideration, rendered wholly unavailable 
towards the promotion of any laudable or 
useful purpose ! 


Nor is this all. Want of consideration is, 


THE WOMEN 


often the occasion of absolute pain: and those 
who, because they deem it a recommendation 
to act from the impulse of the moment, will 
not take the trouble to reflect, are always, in a 
greater or less degree, liable to inflict misery 
upon others. 

I remember walking home on a beautiful 
summer’s evening, with one of these lovely 
and impetuous creatures, who was then just 
entering upon all the rights and privileges of 
a belle, and, to my great surprise, observing 


| that she trod indiscriminately upon all the 


creeping things which the damp and the dew 
had tempted forth in our path, I remonstra- 
ted with her, of course; but she turned to me 
with her bewitching air of naivete, and said— 


| “And pray, why may I not tread upon the 
|} snails ?’—Further remonstrance was unne- 


cessary, for the mind which had attained ma- 


| turity without feeling enough to prevent this 
| reckless and disgusting waste of life, must of 


“necessity have been impervious to reason. 


And thus it is with considerateness in gen- 
eral. If the season of youth glides over be- 
fore habits of consideration are acquired, they 
will come tardily, and with little grace, in 
after life. Want of consideration for those of 
our fellow-creatures whose love is of import- 
ance to us, is not, however, a subject upon 
which we have so much cause for complaint. 
It is towards those to whom we are connect- 
ed by social ties, without affection—and under 


| this head, the situation of our servants and 


domestics claims the greatest care. 

Servants are generally looked upon, by 
thoughtless young ladies, as a sort of house- 
hold machinery, and when that machinery is 
of sufficient extent to operate upon every 


. branch of the establishment, there can be no 


reason why it should not be brought into ex- 
ercise, and kept in motion to any extent that 
may not be injurious. This machinery, how- 
ever, is composed of individuals possessing 
hearts as susceptible of certain kinds of feel- 
ing, as those of the more privileged beings to 
whose comfort and convenience it is their 
daily business to minister. They know and 
feel that their lot in this world is compara- 


| tively hard: and if they are happily free from 


OF ENGLAND. 


—_—_— Orme — 


all presumptuous questionings of the wisdom 
and justice of Providence in placing them 
where they are, they are alive to the convic- 
tion that the burden of each day is suffi- 
cient, and often more than sufficient for their 
strength. 

In speaking of the obligation we are under 
to our domestics for their faithful services, it 
is no uncommon thing to be answered by this 
unmeaning remark; “They are well paid for 
what they do:” as if the bare fact of receiv- 
ing food and clothing for their daily labor, 
placed them on the same footing with regard 
to comfort, as those who receive their food 
and clothing for doing nothing. 

There is also another point of view in which 
this class of our fellow-creatures is very un- 
fairly judged. Servants are required to have 
no faults. Itis by no means uncommon to 
find the mistress of a family, who has enjoy- 
ed all the advantages of moral and even re- 
ligious education, allowing herself to exhibit 
the most unqualified excess of indignation at 
the petty faults of a servant, who has never 
enjoyed either ; and to hear her speak as if 
she was injured, imposed upon, insulted be- 
fore her family, because the servant, who was 


engaged to work for her, had been betrayed > 


into impertinence by a system of reproof as 
much at variance with Christian meekness, 
as the retort it was so well calculated to pro- 
voke. 

Women of such habits, would perhaps be 
a little surprised, if told, that when a lady de- 
scends from her own proper station, to speak 
in an irritating or injurious manner to a ser- 
vant, she is herself guilty of impertinence, and 
that no domestic of honest and upright spirit 
will feel that such treatment ought to be sub- 
mitted to. 

On the other hand, there is a degree of 
kindness blended with dignity, which servants, 
who are not absolutely depraved, are able to 
appreciate ; and the slight effort required to 
obtain their confidence, is almost invariably 
repaid by a double share of affectionate and 
faithful service. 

The situation of living unloved by their do- 
mestics is one which I should hope there are 


lige 


a 
56 


ee 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


few women capable of enduring with indiffer- 
ence. ‘The cold attentions rendered without 
affection, and curtailed by every allowable 
means, the short unqualified reply to every 
question, the averted look, the privilege stolen 
rather than solicited, the secret murmur that 
is able to make itself understood without the 
use of words—all these are parts of a system 
of behavior that chills the very soul, and forces 
upon the mind the unwelcome conviction, 
that a stranger who partakes not in our com- 
mon lot, is within our domestic circle ; or that 
an alien who enters not into the sphere of our 
home associations, attends upon our social 
board ; nay, so forcible is the impression, as 
almost to extend to a feeling that an enemy 
is among the members of our own house- 
hold. 

How different is the impression produced 
by a manner calculated both to win their 
confidence and inspire their respect! The 
kind welcome after absence, the watchful eye, 
the anticipation of every wish, the thousand 
little attentions and acts of service beyond 
what are noted in the bond—who can resist 
the influence of these upon the heart, and not 
desire to pay them back—not certainly in their 
own kind and measure, but in the only way 
they can be returned consistenly with the rel- 
ative duties of both parties—in kindness and 
consideration ? 

It is not, however, in seasons of health and 
prosperity, that this bond between the differ- 
ent members of a family can be felt in its full 
force. There is no woman so happily cir- 
cumstanced, but that she finds some link bro- 
ken in the charm which binds her to this 
world—some shadow cast upon her earthly 
pictures. The best beloved are not always 
those who love the best; and expectation 
will exceed reality, even in the most favored 
lot. There are hours of sadness that will 
steal in, even upon the sunny prime of life; 
and they are not felt the less, because it is 
sometimes impossible to communicate the rea- 
son for such sadness to those who are them- 
selves the cause. In such cases, and while 
the heart is in some degree estranged from 
natural and familiar fellowship, we are thrown 


more especially upon the kindness and affec- 
tion of our domestics for the consolation we 
feel it impossible to live without. They may 
be, and they ought to be, wholly unacquainted 
with the cause of our disquietude; but a 
faithfully attached servant, without presuming 
beyond her proper sphere, is quick to discern 
the tearful eye, the gloomy brow, the coun- 
tenance depressed; and it is at such times 
that their kindness, solicitude, and delicate 
attentions, might often put to shame the higher 
pretensions of superior refinement. 

In cases of illness or death, it is perhaps 
more especially their merit to prove, by their 
indefatigable and unrequited assiduities, how 
much they make the interest of the family 
their own, and how great is their anxiety to 
remove all lighter causes of annoyance from 
interference with the greater affliction in 
which those around them are involved. 
There is scarcely a more pitiable object in 
creation than a helpless invalid left entirely to 
the care of domestics whose affection never |} 
has been sought or won. But, on the other 
hand, the readiness with which they will some- 
times sacrifice their needful rest, and that, 
night after night, to watch the feverish slum- 
bers of a fretful invalid, is one of those re- 
deeming features in the aspect of human na- 
ture which it is impossible to regard without 
feelings of admiration and gratitude. 

The question necessarily follows,—how are 
our domestics to be won over to this confi- 
dence and affection? It comes not by na- 
ture, for no tie, except what necessarily im- 
plies authority and subjection, exists between 
us. It cannot come by mutual acts of service, 
because the relation between us is of such a 
nature as to place the services almost entire- 
ly on their side, the benefits derived from 
such services, on ours. It comes, then, by 
instances of consideration, showing that we 
have their interests at heart in the same de- 
gree that we expect them to have ours. We 
cannot actually do much for them, because it 
would be out of our province, and a means 
of removing them out of theirs; but we can 
think and feel for them, and thus lighten or 
add weight to their burdens, by the manner 


rn 
- 


ra a a A ay SE mere 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


in which our most trifling and familiar actions 
are performed. 

In a foregoing chapter, I have ventured a 
few hints on the subject of manners, chiefly 
as regards their influence among those who 
meet us upon equal terms in the social affairs 
of life. The influence of the manner we 
choose to adopt in our intercourse with ser- 
vants, is of such importance as to deserve fur- 
ther notice than the nature of this work will 
allow. 

There isa phenomenon sometimes witness- 
ed at the head of a well-appointed table, from 
which many besides myself have no doubt 
started with astonishment and disgust. A 
well-dressed, well-educated lady, attired in the 
most becoming and fashionable costume, is 
eugaged in conversing with her friends, press- 
ing them to partake of her well-flavored vi- 
ands, and looking and speaking with the 
blandest smiles; when suddenly one of the 
servants is beckoned towards her, and with 
an instantaneous expression of countenance, 
in which is concealed the passion and the im- 
periousness of a whole lifetime, he is admon- 
ished of his duty in sharp whispers that seem 
to hiss, like lightning in his ears. .The lady 
them turns round to her guests, is again array- 
ed in smiles, and prepared again to talk 
sweetly of the sympathies and amiabilities of 
our common nature. 

There is, it must be confessed, a most ob- 
jectionable manner which blends familiarity 
wiih confidence; and this ought to be guard- 
ed against as much in reproof as in commen- 
dation ; for it cannot be expected that a mis- 
tress who \reproves her servant with coarse- 
ness and vulgarity, will be treated with much 
delicacy in return. The consideration I would 


‘recommend, so far from inviting familiarity, 


is necessarily connected with true dignity, be- 
cause it implies in the most undeviating man- 
ner, a strict regard to the relative position of 
both parties. Let us see then in what it con- 


sists, or rather let us place it in a stronger 
light by pointing out instances in which the 
absence of it is most generally felt. 

There are many young ladies, and some old 
ones, with whom the patronage of pets appears 


57 


to be an essential part ofhappiness; and these 
pets, as various as the tastes they gratify, are 
all alike in one particular—they are all trouble- 
some. Ifa lady engages her servants with 
an understanding that they are to wait upon 
her domestic animals, no one can accuse her 
of injustice. But if, with barely a sufficient 
number of domestics to perform the necessa- 
ry labor of her household, she establishes a 
menagerie, and expects the hard-working ser- 
vants to undertake the additional duty of 
Waiting upon her pets—perhaps the most re- 
pulsive creatures in existence to them—such 
additional service ought at least to be solicit- 
ed as a favor ; and she will have no right to 
feel indignant, should the favor be sometimes 
granted in a manner neither gracious nor con- 
ciliating. 

When a servant who has been all day la- 
boring hard to give an aspect of comfort and 
cleanliness ta the particular department com- 
mitted to her care, sees the young ladies of 
the family come home from their daily walk, 
and, never dreaming of her, or her hard la- 
bor, trample over the hall and stairs without 
stopping to rid themselves of that encum- 
brance of clay, which a fanciful writer has 
classed among the “ miseries of human life,” 
is it to be expected that the servant who sees 
this should be so far uninfluenced by the pas- 
sions of humanity, as not to feel the stirrings 
of rage and resentment in her bosom? And 
when this particular act is repeated every 
day, and followed up by others of the same 
description, the frequently recurring sensa- 
tions of rage and resentment, so naturally ex- 
cited, will strengthen into those of habitual dis- 
like, and produce that cold serviceand grudg- 
ing kindness which has already been described. 

There are thousands of little acts of this de- 
scription, such as ordering the tired servants 
at an unseasonable hour to prepare an early 


SS eee 


breakfast, and then not being ready yourself || 


before the usual time—being habitually too 
late for dinner, without any sufficient reason, 
and having a second dinner served up—ring- 
ing the bell for the servant to leave her washing, 
cooking, or cleaning, and come up to you to re- 
ceive orders to fetch your thimble or scissors, 


———__——- - 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


from the highest apartment in the house—all 
which need no comment; and surely those 
servants must be more than human who can 
experience the effects of such a system of 
behavior, carried on for days, months, and 
years, and not feel, and feel bitterly, that they 
are themselves regarded as mere machines, 
while their comfort and convenience is as 
much left out of calculation, as if they were 
nothing more. 

It is an easy thing, on entering a family, to 
ascertain whether the female members of it 
are, or are not, considerate. Where they are 
not, there exists, as a necessary consequence, 
a constant series of murmurings, pleadings, 
remonstrances, and attempted justifications» 
which sadly mar the happiness of the house- 
hold. On the other hand, where the female 
members of the family are considerate, there 
is a secret spring of sympathy linking all 
hearts together, as if they were moved by a 
simultaneous impulse of kindness on one side, 
and gratitude onthe other. Few words have 
need to be spoken, few professions to be made, 
for each is hourly discovering that they have 
been the subject of affectionate solicitude, and 
they are consequently on the watch for every 
opportunity to make an adequate return. If 
the brother comes home sad or weary, the 
sister to whom he has pledged himself to 
some exertion, detects the languor of his eye, 
and refrains from pressing upon him a. fulfil- 
ment of his promise; if the sister is laboring 
under depression, the brother feels himself es- 
pecially called upon to stand forward as her 
friend; and if one of the family be suffering 
even slightly from indisposition, there are 
watchful eyes around, and the excursioa is 
cheerfully given up by one, the party by an- 
other, and a quiet socia] evening is unani- 
mously agreed upon to be spent at home, and 
agreed upon in such a way as that the inva- 
lid shall never suspect it has been done at 
the cost of any pleasure. 

There is no proof of affection more kindly 
| prompted and more gratefully received, than 
that of easily detecting uncomplained-of in- 
disposition. We might almost single out this 
faculty as the surest test of love—for who 


a EY 


observes the incipient wrinkle on a stranger’s 
brow, or marks the gradually increasing pale- 
ness of an unloved cheek? Or what can 
convince us more effectually that we are in 
a world of strangers, to whom our interests 
are as nothing, than to be pressed on every 
hand to do what our bodily strength is une- 
qual to. 

There are points of consideration in which 
we often practice great self-deception. “ Don’t 
you think it would do you good, my dear?’ 
asks the young lady of her sickly sister, when 
the day of promised pleasure is at hand, and 
she begins to fear her sister’s cough will ren- 
der it impossible to go from home. “The 
pain in your foot, my love, is considerably 
better,” says the wife to her husband, when 
she thinks the fashionables are about leaving || 
Rath. 
says the niece to her aged uncle, who has 
promised to take her to Paris; “I think I 
never saw you look so well.’ But all this is 
not love. It does not feel like love to the 
parties addressed; for nature is true to her- 
self, and she <will betray the secrets of art. } 
How different are the workings of that deep 
and earnest affection that sees with one 
glance how unreasonable it would be to drag 
forth the invalid to any participation in the 
enjoyments of health; and how welcome is 
the gentle whisper which assures us that one 
watchful eye perceives our suffering, one 
sympathizing ear participates in our weak- 
ness and distress; for it zs distress to be 
compelled to complain that we are unequal 
to do what the happiness of others depends 
upon our doing; and never is the voice of 
friendship employed in a more kindly office, 
than when pleading the cause of our in- 
firmity. 

It is chiefly with regard to the two sister 
virtues of consideration and kindness, that I 
look upon the women of England as so highly 
privileged ; because the nature of their social 
and domestic circumstances is such, as to 
afford them constantly-recurring opportuni- 
ties of proving that they think often and 
kindly of others, without any departure from 
the wonted routine of their conduct, that 


en 


“You are looking extremely well,” 


might wear the character of a pointed appli- 
cation of such feelings. 

It has a startling, and by no means an 
agreeable effect upon the mind, when a wo- 
man who is not habitually accustomed to any 
sort of practical kindness, so far deviates from 
her usual line of conduct, as to perform any 
personal service solely for ourselves. We 
feel that she has been troubled, and suspect 
that she has been annoyed. But women ac- 
customed to practical duties are able to turn 
the whole tide of their affectionate solicitude 
into’ channels so wholesome and salutary, 
that our pride is not wounded by the obliga- 
tion under which we are placed, nor is our 
sense of gratitude impaired by the pain of 
being singled out as the object of unwonted 
and elaborate attentions. 

In order to illustrate the subject by a fa- 
miliar instance, let us imagine one of those 
events experienced by all who have lived to 
years of maturity, and experienced in such 
a way as to have thrown them ina peculiar 
manner upon the domestic comforts of the 
circle to which they were introduced—the 
arrival, after long travel, on a visit to an early 
and highly valued friend. 

It is not necessary to this picture, that park 
gates should be thrown open, and footmen 
stationed on the steps of the hall ; it will bet- 
ter serve our purpose, that the mistress of 
the house should herself be the first to meet 
her guest, with that genuine welcome in her 
looks and manner that leaves nothing to be 
expressed by words. We will suppose that 
‘with her own hand she displaces all the en- 
cumbrance of extra wrappings, rendered ne- 
cessary by the winter’s journey, and having 
quietly dismissed the expectant chaise-driver 
or porter, she leads her friend into the neatly 
furnished parlor, where another and a more 
familiar welcome seems at once to throw 
open her heart and her house for her recep- 
tion. A fire that has been designedly built 
up, is then most energetically stirred, until a 
bright and genial blaze diffuses its light around 
the room, and the guest begins to glow with 
the two-fold warmth of a welcome and a 
winter’s fire. 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


ELST ESAS See 
a 


59 


In the mean time, the servant, well taught 
in the mysteries of hospitality, conveys the 
luggage up stairs unseen, and the guest is 
led to the chamber appointed for her nightly 
rest. There, most especially, is both seen 
and felt the kind feeling that has taken into 
account her peculiar tastes, and anticipated 
all her well-remembered wishes. The east 
or the west apartment has been chosen, ac- 
cording to the preference she has been known 
to express in days long since gone by, when 
she and her friend were girls together; and 
thus the chain of fond and cherished recol- 
lections is made-to appear again unbroken 
after the lapse of years, and a conviction is 
silently impressed upon the mind of the trav- 
eller—perhaps the most welcome of all earthly 
sources of assurances—that we have been 
remembered, not merely in the abstract—but 
that through long, long years of change and 
separation, time has not obliterated from the 
mind of a dear friend, the slightest trace of 
our individuality. 

Perhaps none can tell until they have ar- | 
rived at middle age, what is in reality the 
essential sweetness of this conviction. In our | 
association with the world, we may have ob-. 
tained for our industry, our usefulness, or it 
may be for our talents, a measure of approval 
at least commensurate with our deserts; but 
give back to the worn and the weary in this 
world’s warfare, the friends of their early | 
youth—the friends who loved them, faults | 
and all—the friends who could note down || 
their very follies without contempt, and who 
attached a degree of interest and importance 
to the trifling peculiarities of their temper | 
and feelings, which rendered them indelible 
memorials of an attachment, such as never 
can be formed in after life. | 

To return from this digression. The Eng- 
lish woman, in the unsophisticated beauty of 
her character, has a power far peo 
what can be attained by the most scrupulous 
observance of the rules of art, of thus invest- 
ing her familiar and social actions with a 
charm that goes directly to the heart. 

We have traced the traveller to the cham- 
ber of her rest, and it is not in the choice of 


ee 


| 
| 
| 
| 


60 DOMESTIC 


this room alone, but in its furniture and gen- 
eral aspect, that she reads the cheering truth 
of a superintending care having been exer- 
cised over all it contains, in strict reference 
to herself, not merely as an honored guest, 
but as a lover of this or that small article of 
comfort or convenience, which in the world 
of comparative strangers among whom she 
has been living, she has seldom thought it 
worth her while to stipulate for, and still less 
frequently has had referred to her:choice. 

Now, it is evident that the mistress of the 
house herself must have been here. 
her own hand she must have placed upon 
the table the favorite toilet-cushion, worked 
by a friend who was alike dear to herself and 
her guest. With her own hand she must 
have selected the snow-white linen, and laid 
out, not in conspicuous obtrusiveness, a few 
volumes calculated for the hours of silent 
meditation, when her friend shall be alone. 

It is impossible that the services of the 
most faithful domestic should be able to con- 
vey half the heartfelt meaning indicated by 
these few familiar acts, so richly worth their 
cost. It is not from the circumstance of 
having all our wants supplied, that the most 
lively satisfaction is derived ; it is from the 
cheering fact that we ourselves, in our indi- 
vidual capacity, have been the object of so 
much faithful recollection and untiring love. 

Instead therefore of regarding it as a sub- 
ject for murmuring and complaint, that her 
means of personal indulgence do not supply 
her with a greater number of domestics, the 
true English woman ought rather to esteem 
it a privilege that her station in life is such as 
to place her in the way of imparting this ra- 
tional and refined enjoyment. 

We cannot imagine the first day of hospi- 
table welcome complete without our visitor 
being introduced to that concatenation of 
comforts—an early tea. On descending from 
her chamber, then, she finds all things in 
readiness for this grateful and refreshing 
meal. Her attention is not distracted by 
apologies for what is not there, but what, on 
such occasions, frequently might have been, 
at the cost of half the effort required for an 


With . 


HABITS OF 


elaborate excuse. As ifthe fairy order had 
been at work, the table is spread with all 
things most agreeable after weary travel; 
and the guest, instead of being pressed to eat 
with such assiduity that she begins to think 
her visit has no other object, is only inter- 
rupted by kind inquiries relating to home as- 
sociations, and is beguiled into a prolonga- 
tion of her meal, by being drawn out into a 
detail of the events of her journey. 

As the evening passes on, their conversa- 
tion becomes more intimate, and while it 
deepens in interest, that full expansion of the 
soul takes place, under which, whatever 
English women may be in the superficial in- 
tercourse of polished life, I have no scruple 
in saying, that as fireside companions, they 
are the most delightful upon earth. There 
are such-vivid imaginings, and such touches 
of native humor, such deep well-springs of 
feeling, beyond their placid exterior; that 
when they dare to come forth, and throw 
themselves upon the charity or affection of 


their hearers, one is beguiled into a fascina- ' 
tion the more intense, because it combines | 


originality of thought with gentle manners, 
and in a peculiar and forcible way invests 
the cherished recollections of the past, with 
the fresh warm coloring of the present hour. 

It is not amidst congregated masses of 
society, that the true English woman can ex- 
hibit her native powers of conversation. It 
It is when two are met together, with per- 
haps a husband or a brother for a third, and 
the midnight hour steals on, and yet they 
take no note of time, for they are opening out 
their separate store of treasures from the 
deep of memory, sharing them with each 


other, and blending all with such bright an- | 


ticipations of the future, as none but a wo- 
man’s imagination can enjoy, with faith in 
their reality. 

Or, perhaps, they are consulting upon some 
difficult point of duty, or sympathizing with 
each other in affliction; and then, where 


shall we look but to the English woman for | 


the patient listener, the faithful counsellor, 
the stanch supporter of each virtuous pur- 
pose, the keen discerner in points of doubtful 


SE pe 


a 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


merit, and the untiring comforter in every 
hour of need. 

It would be too tedious, and might to some 
appear too trifling, were I to trace out the 
conduct of the being here described, through 
more of the familiar scenes presented by do- 
mestic life. It may also be thought by some 
who know little of women in this capacity, 
that I am drawing merely from imagination ; 
others will know that my coloring is true— 
that human life, in some of its obscurest 
passages, has secrets of moral excellence in 
the female character, presenting objects as 
lovely as ever were revealed to the poet’s 
fancy. Alas! for those whose memory alone 
supplies them with the materials for this pic- 
ture—who now can only feel that “such 
things were.” 

The charge of trifling is one I should be 
sorry to incur in writing on a subject so seri- 
ous as the domestic morals of women; yet 
how to enter into a detail sufficiently minnte 
without, I confess I do not clearly see. I 
must, therefore, again pause, and ask the 
reader, in my own defence, of what the ordi- 
nary life of a woman of the middle class of 
society is composed, but a mass of trifles, out 
of which arises the happiness or the misery 
of a numerous and important portion of the 
human race? I would also ask, What is a 
| woman who despises trifles? She may pos- 
sibly enjoy, with undisputed dignity, a niche 
in the temple of fame, but she ought never to 
descend from her marble pedestal, to mingle 
with the social circle around the living blaze 
of the domestic hearth. ‘Those quiet, unob- 
trusive virtues, which are ever the most love- 
ly in the female character, must necessarily 
be the most difficult to define. They are so 
much more felt than seen—so much better 
understood than described—that to give them 

a name would be impossible, and even to 
| portray them in an ideal picture might not 
perhaps convey to the mind of the beholder 
any adequate idea of their importance. But, 
as in painting a finished picture, the skill of 
the artist is not only required in the general 
outline, but is equally requisite in the jfilling- 
up, so the perfection of the female character 


61 


is not sufficiently indicated by saying she is 
possessed of every virtue, unless we point 
out the individual instances upon which those 
virtues are brought to bear; and the more 
minute and delicate their aspect, if they are 
but frequently presented to our notice, the 
stronger is our conviction that virtuous prin- 
ciple is the ground-work of the whole. 

With regard to the particular instance al- 
ready described, the case may perhaps be 
more clearly illustrated by adding a picture 
of an opposite description, in order to ascer- 
tain in what particular points the two cases || 
differ. 

For this purpose, we will imagine a wo- 
man distinguished by no extreme of charac- 
ter, receiving her guest under precisely the 
same circumstances as the one already de- 
scribed. In this case, the visitor is permitted || 
to see that her hostess has reluctantly laid 
down her book at the latest possible period 
of time which politeness would allow; or, 
after her guest has remained twenty minutes 
in a vacant, and by no means inviting par- 
lor, she comes toiling up from the kitchen, 
with a countenance that makes it dreadful 
to be adding to her daily fatigues by placing 
one’s self at her table ; and she answers the 
usual inquiries of her friend, as to her state 
of health, with a minute detail of the vari- 
ous phenomena of a headache with which 
she has that morning been attacked. The 
one domestic is then called up—and wo be- 
tide that family, whose daily services, un- 
practised by its individual members towards 
each other, all emanate from one domestic. 

The one domestic then is ordered, in the 
hearing of the guest, to take all the luggage 
up stairs, to bring hot water, towels, soap— 
to turn the carpets—run for the best looking- 
glass—and see that tea is ready by the time 
the friend comes down. The party then as- 
cend, accompanied by the panting servant, 
into a room, upon which no kind of care has 
been bestowed. It may possibly be neat—so 
neat that the guest supposes it never has 
been, and is not yet intended to be, used. 
Yes, every thing is in its place; but a gene- 
ral blank pervades the whole, and it is not 


——<—$>—< $$ —————————— 
a pee eS Ste er nna Ses 


62 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


the least of the disappointments experienced 
by our guest, that she finds no water to re- 
fresh her aching temples. The mistress of the 
house is angry at this neglect, and rings the 
bell. The servant ascends from the kitchen 
to the highest room, to learn that she must 
go down again, and return, before half the 
catalogue of her faults has been told. 

On such errands as this, she is employed 
until the party descend to the parlor, where 
the bell is again rung more imperatively, and 
the tea is ordered to be brought instanter. 
In the mean time, the fire has dwindled to 
the lowest bar. The mistress looks for coals, 
but the usual receptacle isempty. She feels 
as if there were a conspiracy against her. 
There is—there can be no one to blame but 
the servant; and thus her chagrin is allevi- 
ated by complaints against servants in gene- 
ral, and her own in particular. With these 
complaints, and often-repeated apologies, the 
time is occupied until the appearance of the 
long-expected meal, when the guest is press- 
ed to partake of a repast not sweetened by 
the comments of her hostess, or the harassed 
and forlorn appearance of an over-worked 
domestic. 

The mistress of this house may all the 
while be glad to see her guest, and may really 
regard her as an intimate and valued friend ; 
but never. having made it an object to prac- 
tise the domestic virtue of making others 
happy, she knows not how to convey any 
better idea of a welcome than by words. 
She, therefore, sets deliberately to work to 
describe how happy she esteems herself in 
receiving so dear a friend—wishes some third 
party were at home—hopes to be able to 
amuse her—tells of the parties she has en- 
gaged for each successive evening—brings 
out a pile of engravings—fears her guest is 
weary—and lastly, at a very early hour, rings 
for the chamber-candlesticks, presuming that 
her visitor would like to retire. 

It is needless to observe that the generality 
of visitors do retire upon this hint; and it is 
equally needless to add, that the individual 
here described. fails to exhibit the character 
‘of the true English woman, whose peculiar 


charm is that of diffusing happiness, without 
appearing conspicuously as the agent in its 
diffusion. It is from the unseen, but active 
principle of disinterested love, ever working 
at her heart, that she enters, with a percep- 
tion as delicate as might be supposed to be- 
long to a ministering angel, into the peculiar 
feelings and tones of character influencing 
those around her, applying the magical key 
of sympathy to all they suffer or enjoy, to all 
they fear or hope, until she becomes identified 
as it were with their very being, blends her 
own existence with theirs, and makes her 
society essential to their highest earthly en- 
joyment. 

Ifa heightened degree of earthly enjoyment 
were all we could expect to obtain, by this 
line of conduct, I should still be disposed to 
think the effect produced would be richly 
worth our pains. But I must again repeat, 
that the great aim of a Christian woman will 
always be, so to make others happy, that 
their feelings shall be attuned to the recep- 
tion of better thoughts than those which re- 
late to mere personal enjoyment—so to make 
others happy, as to win them over to a full 
perception of the loveliness of those Chris- 
tian virtues, which her own life and conduct 
consistently show forth. 


CHAPTER Vill. 


DOMESTIC HABITS—-CONSIDERATON AND KIND- 
NESS. 


TuE subject of consideration might be con- 
tinued to almost any extent, since it seems 
either to comprehend, or to be closely con- 
nected with, all that is morally excellent in 
woman. We shall, however, confine our 
attention to only a few more of those import- 
ant branches in which this fertile theme de- 
mands our serious thought—towards those 
who are beneath us in pecuniary circum- 
stances, and towards those with whom we 
are associated in the nearest domestic rela- 
tions. 

The young and inexperienced having never 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


themselves tasted the cup of adversity, are, 
in a great measure, excusable for not know- 
ing how to treat the morbid and susceptible 
| feelings, which the fact of having drank deep- 
ly of that cup often produces; nor is it easy 
to communicate to their minds any idea of 
the extreme of suffering to which this tone 
of feeling may extend. Much may be done, 
| however, by cultivating habits of considera- 
tion, by endeavoring sometimes to identify 
themselves with those who suffer, by asking 
how it would be with them if their parents 
had fallen below what, by the world, is called 
respectability—if they were obliged to seek 
the means of maintaining themselves—if they 
were admitted into families by sufferance, 
and only on condition that they should re- 
main until another home could be found, in 
which their own hands might minister to their 
necessities. 

There is no class of beings whose circum- 
stances altogether are more calculated to call 
forth our tenderest sympathies, than those 
delicate females whose fireside comforts are 
broken up by the adverse turn of their pecu- 
niary affairs, and who are consequently sent 
forth to share the lot of families unknown to 
them, and to throw themselves upon the 
kindness and consideration of strangers. It 
is in cases of this kind, especially, that we see 

the importance of having cultivated the moral 

faculties, of having instilled into the mind 
those sound principles of integrity, useful- 
ness, and moral responsibility, which, in pro- 
portion as they become the foundation of our 
familiar and daily conduct, necessarily invest 
every act of duty with a cheerfulness which 
cannot fail to be acceptable in the sight of 
that merciful Creator, who alone is capable 
of transforming what is irksome or repulsive 
to the natural feelings, into sources of grati- 
tude and delight. | 

The frequent occurrence of such changes 
in the pecuniary affairs of English families, 
as render it necessary for the female mem- 
bers to be thus circumstanced is, therefore, 
one among the many reasons, why the effects 
of that false refinement which is gradually 
increasing among the female part of English 


with it the growth of sound principles, and 
the increase of moral power. 

Persons whoare reduced in their pecuniary 
circumstances are generally judged of as we 
judge our servants, and those who are born 
to humble means; they are required to have 
no faults, and the public cry is especially di- 
rected against theth, if they evince the least 
symptom of pride. Indeed, so great is our 
abhorrence of this particular fault, that we 
often make even a slight evidence of its ex- 
istence a plea for the discontinuance of our 
bounty and our favor. We forget that the 
pride of the individuals in question has per- 
haps been ministered to throughout the whole 
of their former lives, and that they, no more 
than we, can renounce their soul-besetting 
sins, as they give up the luxuries they are 
no longer able to procure. We forget, also, 
that their circumstances are calculated, in an 
especial manner, to rouse the lurking evil, 
even had it_never been conspicuous in their 
characters before. 

The man who floats safely upon the 
stream of worldly prosperity, with his early 
companions a little lower than himself, can 
afford to be gracious and conciliating; but 
when he begins to sink, and feels the same 
companions struggling to float past him, and 
finally leaving him to contend with his diffi- 
culties, his feelings towards them undergo a 
total change: he accounts himself an injured 
man, and becomes a prey to envy, disappoint- 
ment, and wounded pride. The world’s 
contumely, more grievous than his actual 
privations, assails his peace of mind; he 
learns to look for unkindness, and to expect 
it, even where it does not exist. In the 
stranger’s eye he reads contempt and neg- 
lect; he lives, as it were, surrounded by 
daggers—bleeding at every pore, and wound- 
ed by every thing with which he comes in | 
contact. “How absurd!” is the exclama- 
tion we hear from the prosperous and incon- 


ee ER 


63 
society, should be counteracted by the strenu- 
ous efforts of the well-wishers of their coun- 
try; and high time it is, that all our energies 
should be roused, not by any means to retard 
the progress of intellect, but to force along 


LL 


64 


siderate—“how worse than absurd for a 
man to be feeling in this manner, because he 
has lost a few hundreds!’”’ And yet men do 
feel to such a degree, that nothing but reli- 
gion can enable them to bear such vicissitudes 
with calmness and resignation. And even 
when supported by religion, it has pleased 
our heavenly Father to accompany these 
dispensations of his providence, with a de- 
gree of suffering to which no human mind 
is insensible. 

It is generally regarded as the extreme of 
benevolence, if; in our intercourse with such 
persons, we treat them exactly as we did in 
more prosperous days; and few there are 
who can at all times withhold expressions 
equivalent to these: “How unreasonable it 
is to expect so much attention now! It is 
not likely we can ask that family to meet our 
friends; we should be willing still to notice 
them in a private way, if they would but be 
more grateful—more considerate.’ And thus 
they are allowed to pass away from our 
social gatherings, to be called upon perhaps 
occasionally at their own humble abodes, 
but by no means to be invited in return, lest 
some of our wealthier friends should detect 
us in the act of performing the offices of 
hospitality to a person in a threadbare coat. 
And yet this family may have done nothing 
worse than thousands are doing every day— 
than even our richest and dearest friends 
are doing—and we may know it all the 
while. 

It sickens the heart to think of these 
things, and to reflect how far—how very far, 
even the good and the kind, fall short of that 
beautiful and heart-touching injunction of 
our blessed Saviour, “ When thou makest a 
feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, 
the blind.” 

The wealthy and distinguished man, with 
whom we have but a slight acquaintance, 
sends his son into our neighborhood on busi- 
ness or pleasure. We hear of his coming, 
and persuade ourselves it is but respectful 
to invite him to be our guest. It is at the 
expense of our domestic comfort that we 
entertain him—but that is nothing. Diffi- 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


culties appear on every hand to vanish as 
soon as they appear; we even persuade 
ourselves that a sort of merit attaches to our 
doing all in our power to accommodate the 
son of so distinguished a person. 

The poor widow, perhaps our relative, 
sends her son to town to seek a situation, 
and we hear of his coming. We knew his 
mother in more prosperous days. She was 
a worthy woman then, but her husband died 
insolvent, and the family necessarily fell 
away from what they had been. It cannot 
be at all incumbent upon us to ask such 
young men as these to our houses. ‘They 
might come in shoals. Our domestic com- 
fort would be sacrificed, and it is the duty of 
every one to maintain the peace and order 
of their own household. 

Thus the widow’s son is allowed to wan- 
der up and down the streets, to resort to 
expensive lodging-houses, and to purchase, 
with the pittance provided by his mother 
from her slender means, that accommodation 
which a little Christian hospitality might 
have spared him. 

We complain that our streets are thronged 
on the Sabbath-day with troops of idle young 
men and women, who afford a painful spec- 
tacle to those who pass them on their way to 
public worship. How many of these—ap- 
prentices, and assistants in business—are 
actually driven into the streets from very 
want of any thing like a hospitable or social 
home ! 

I am by no means prepared to say, how 
far true Christian benevolence, acted out 
towards this class of the community, would 
lead us to give up our domestic comfort for 
their sakes, and for the sake of preserving 
them from harm; but I do know it would 
lead us to adopt a very different treatment 
of them, from that which generally prevails ; 
and I consider also, that these duties rest 
especially with women. 

It is not easy for a man who has to fill the 
office of master to a number of apprentices 
and assistants during the hours of business, 
to unbend before them at his own fireside. 
But a considerate and high-principled wo- 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


man, may, without loss of dignity, and cer- 
tainly without loss of respect, make them 
feel that she regards it as her duty to be 
their friend as well as their mistress, and 
that she looks upon herself as under a sa- 
cred obligation to advise them in difficulties, 
to guard their welfare, and promote their 
comfort, simply because the all-wise Disposer 
of human affairs has seen meet to place 
them within the sphere of her influence. 

I have devoted a chapter to the influence 
of English women. Many chapters might 
be filled with the duties of tradesmen’s 
wives towards the young people employed 
in their husbands’ affairs, and the responsi- 
bility attaching to them, for the tone of moral 
character which such persons exhibit through 
the whole of their after lives. Of how little 
value, in this point of view, is the immense 
variety of accomplishments generally ac- 
quired at school, compared with the discrimi- 
nation and tact that would enable a woman 
to extend her influence among the class of 
persons here described, and the principle that 
would lead her to turn such influence to the 
best account! How many a mother’s heart 
would be made glad by finding, when her 
son returned to his home, that he had expe- 
rienced something of a mother’s kindness 
from his master’s wife; and how many a 
father would rejoice that his child had been 
preserved from the temptations of a city life, 
by the good feeling that was cherished and 
kept alive at his master’s fireside! 

It is for circumstances such as these, that 
a large proportion of the young women of 
England, now undergoing the process of 
education, have to prepare. Not to imitate 
the heroines they read of; but to plunge into 
the actual cares, and duties, and responsi- 
bilities of every-day existence. They will 


probably have little time either for drawing ° 


or music, may seldom be spoken to in a for- 
eign tongue, and hardly have any opportuni- 
ty of displaying half the amount of verbal 
knowledge with which their memories have 
been stored. But they will, if they are at all 
intent upon fulfilling the great end of their 
existence, have to bethink themselves every 


and the happiness of those around them. 
For this great and laudable purpose, it is of 
the highest importance that they should cul- | 
tivate habits of consideration; for how else 
can they expect to enter into the states of | 
mind, and modes of feeling of those with 

whom they associate, so as to render the | 
means they use effectual to the end desired? | 

It happens to almost all families, in the | 
middle rank of life in England, that they are 
directly or remotely connected with relatives | 
whose pecuniary means are much more lim- 
ited than their own. . To these, as well as to | 
persons of recently decayed fortune, it is 
generally thought highly meritorious to ex- 
tend the common courtesies of society. It | 
implies no disrespect to this class of individ- 
uals, to call them poor relations ; since the 
poor are often brought into a state of whole- 
some discipline, which eventually places them 
higher than the rich in the scale of moral 
worth. The poor relation may possibly have 
known in very early life what it was to enjoy 
all the comforts that ample means afford ; 
but she becomes at last a sort of useful ap- 
pendage to an uncle’s or a brother’s family, 
or is invited by her cousins whenever they 
happen to be in arrears with their plain-work 
—when one of the family wants nursing 
through a tedious illness—or when they are 
going abroad, and require some one to over- 
look the household in their absence. 

The poor relation, in the first place, is 
shown up stairs into a kind of tolerable attic, 
where the walls are white-washed, and where 
a little bed with blue-check curtains is pre- 
pared for her accommodation. They hope 
she will not mind sleeping in the attic—in- 
deed they are sure she will not, she is such a 
dear good creature ; besides, they all like the 
attic for the view it commands, and mamma 
says it is the most comfortable room in the 
house: yet, somehow or other, the young 
ladies never sleep in the attic themselves; 
and considering it is the most desirable room 
in the house, and commands so excellent a 
view, it is astonishingly seldom occupied. 

The poor relation is then introduced to 


hour, what is best to be done for the good | 


| 


66 


company without a name—is spoken of as 
the person staying at Mrs. So and So’s; and, 
after being told that she need not sit longer 
than is agreeable to her after meals, is fairly 
installed into office by being informed, that 
the south chamber is very warm without a 
fire, and has a good light too, so that she can 
see an hour longer there than in any other. 
Here the different members of the family 
bring their work for her to do, looking round 
every time they enter, with a hope that she 
does not feel cold. From the young lady of 
twenty years, to the child of three, a demand 
is made upon her for the supply of all absent 
buttons, and all broken strings. All the stock- 
ings hoarded up against her coming are 
brought to her to be darned—all borders to 
quill—all linen to be mended: and this inun- 
dation of work is the natural consequence of 
her having shown symptoms of a desire to 
be generally agreeable ; but if no such desire 
has been exhibited, wo betide the poor rela- 
tion who proposes a visit to a rich one, where 
kindly feeling and habits of consideration have 
never been cultivated. 

I remember it was very startling to me in 
my youth, and appeared to me at that time 
a contradiction in human nature, that, while 
people had comfortable homes, and were sur- 
| rounded by every thing that could minister 
to enjoyment, they were often invited out to 
partake of the enjoyments of their friends, 
and so pressed to prolong such visits, that it 
seemed as if their friends could never be 
weary of their society. But, let the same in- 
dividuals have no home, let them be placed 
in circumstances calculated to render an in- 
| vitation peculiarly acceptable, and it was with 
difficulty obtained, or not obtained at all. 
Though in all respects as agreeable as in 
former days, they were not pressed to stay 
beyond a very limited period; and some who 
had been the most solicitous to enjoy the fa- 
vor of their company, suddenly found their 
accommodations so exceedingly small, that 
they could not invite any guest to partake of 
their hospitality. 

But these, my sisters, are disgraceful ways, 
for woman—warm-hearted, generous, noble- 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


minded woman, to fall into. From men we 
expect not all those little niceties of behavior 
and feeling that would tend to heal the 
wounds of adversity. ‘Their necessary pur- 
suits deprive them of many opportunities of 
making the unfortunate and afflicted feel, 
that amidst the wreck of their worldly hopes, 
they have at least retained some moral dig- 
nity in the estimation of their friends; but 
from woman we do look for some redeeming 
charities, some tenderness of heart among 
the sordid avocations and selfish pursuits of 


this life ; and never do they rise to such true | 
eminence, as when they bestow these chari- ° 


ties, and apply this tenderness to the broken 
in spirit, the neglected, and the desolate, who 
are incapable of rendering them any return. 

Harassed by the cares and perplexities of 
a sordid world, and disappointed in the high 
promise of our early youth; neglected, per- 
haps despised where we had hoped to find 


protection and support in the hour of trial; | 
driven out from the temples of our soul’s idol- 


atry, it is to woman that we look for the man- 
tle of charity, to cast over the blighted bosom 
—for the drop of sweetness to mingle with 
our bittercup. Westretch our eyes over the 
wide tumultuous ocean of life, for some spot 
on which our ark may rest. We send forth 
the raven, and it returns not; but the gentler 
dove comes back with the olive-branch, and 
we hail it as a harbinger of safety and peace. 

Although it must be confessed that women 
are sometimes too negligent of the tender 
offices of kindness towards those who have 
no immediate claim upon their affections, 
there remains some excuse for this particular 
species of culpability, in the general usages 
of society ; and in the example of discreet 
and prudent persons, who deem it ursafe to 
deviate in any conspicuous manner from the 
beaten track of custom. No excuse, how- 
ever, can be found for those who permut the 
closer ties of relationship to exist, without 
endeavoring to weave into the same bond, all 


‘the tender sympathies of which the human 


heart is capable. 
Brothers and sisters are so associated in 
English homes, as materially to promote each 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


67 


other’s happiness, by the habits of kindness 
and consideration which they cultivate; and 
when a strong friendship can be formed be- 
tween such parties, it is perhaps one of the 


' most faithful and disinterested of any which 


the aspect of human life presents. A young 
man of kind and social feelings is often glad 
to find in his sister, a substitute for what he 
afterwards ensures more permanently in a 
wife ; and young women are not backward 
in returning this affection by a love as con- 
fiding, and almost as tender as they are capa- 


{ble of feeling. Their intercourse has also the 


endearing charm of early association, which 
no later-formed acquaintance can supply. 
They have shared the sunny hours of child- 
hood together; and when the young man 
goes forth into the world, the love of his sis- 
ter is like a talisman about his heart. Wo- 
man, however, must be watchful and studi- 


| ous to establish this intimate connection, and 
| to keep entire the golden cord by which they 


| 


| trouble to rise and 


ew 


are thus bound. Affection does not come by 
relationship alone; and never yet was the 
affection of man fully and lastingly engaged 
by woman, without some means being adopt- 
ed on her part to increase or preserve his 
happiness. The childish and most unsatis- 
factory fondness that means nothing but “I 
love you,” goes but a little way to reach the 
heart of man; but let his home be made 
more comfortable, let his peculiarities of habit 
and temper be studiously consulted, and so- 
cial and familiar gratifications provided for 
his daily use; and, unless he is ungrateful 
beyond the common average of mankind, he 
will be sure to regard the source from whence 
his comforts flow with extreme complacency, 
and not unfrequently with affection. 

On the other hand, let the sister possess all 
that ardor of attachment which young ladies 
are apt to believe they feel, let her hang 
about his neck at parting, and bathe his 
face with her tears; if she has not taken the 
prepare his early meal, 
but has allowed him to depend upon the 
servant, or to prepare it for himself; it is 

very questionable whether that brother could 


be made to believe in her affection; and cer-. 


tainly he would be far from feeling its value. 
If, again, they read some interesting volume 
together, if she lends her willing sympathy, 
and blends her feelings with his, entering in- 
to all the trains of thought and recollection 
which two congenial minds are capable of 
awakening in each other; and if, after the 
book is closed, he goes up into his chamber 
late on the Saturday night, and finds his lin- 
en unaired, buttonless, and unattended to, 
with the gloves’ he had ten times asked to 
have mended, remaining untouched, where | 
he had left them ; he soon loses the impres- 
sion of the social hour he had been spending, 
and wishes, that, instead of an idle sister, he 
had a faithful and industrious wife. He rea- 
sons, and reasons rightly, that while his sister 
is willing to share with him all that is most 
agreeable to herself, she is by no means will- 
ing to do for his sake what is not agreeable, 
and he concludes his argument with the con- 
viction, that notwithstanding her professions, 
hers is not true affection. 

I do not mean that sisters ought to be the 
servants of their brothers, or that they should 
not, where domestics abound, leave the prac- 
tical part of these duties to them. All that 
is wanted is stronger evidence of their 
watchfulness and their solicitude for their 
brothers’ real comfort. The manner in which 
this evidence shall be given, must still be left 
to their judgment, and their circumstances. 
There are, however, a few simple rules, by 
which I should suppose all kindly affectioned 
women would be willing to be guided. No 
woman in the enjoyment of health should 
allow her brother to prepare his own meals 
at any time of the day, if it were possible for 
her to do it for him. No woman should al- 
low her brother to put on linen in a state of 
dilapidation, to wear gloves or stockings in 
want of mending, or to return home without 
finding a neat parlor, a place to sit down 
without asking for it, and a cheerful invita- 
tion to partake of necessary refreshment. 

All this I believe is often faithfully done, 
where the brother is a gentlemanly, attract- 
ive, and prepossessing person—in short, a 
person to be proud of in company, and 


68 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


pleased with in private; but a brother is a 
brother still, even where these attractions do 
not exist; where the duty is most irksome, 
the moral responsibility is precisely the same 
as where it is most pleasing. Besides, who 
knows what female influence may not effect? 
It is scarcely probable that a younger brother, 
treated by his sisters with perpetual con- 
tempt, almost bordering upon disgust, re- 
garded as an intolerable bore, and got rid of 
by every practicable means, will grow up in- 
to a companionable, interesting, and social 
man; or if he should, he would certainly re- 
serve these qualities for exercise, beyond the 
circle of his own fireside, and for the benefit 
of those who could appreciate him better 
than his sisters. 

The virtue of consideration, in the inter- 
course of sisters with brothers, is never more 
felt than in the sacred duty of warning them 
of moral evil, and encouraging them in moral 
good. Here we see in an especial manner 
the advantages arising from habits of per- 
sonal attention and kindness. A woman 
who stands aloof from the common offices of 
domestic usefulness, may very properly ex- 
tend her advice to a husband, a brother, or a 
son ; but when she has faithfully pointed out 
the fault she would correct, she must leave 
the object of her solicitude, with his wounded 
self-love unhealed, and his irritated feelings 
unrelieved. She has done her duty, and the 
impression most frequently remaining upon 
the mind of the other party is, either that she 
has done it in anger, or that it is impossible 
she can love a being of whom she entertains 
such hard thoughts. 

The sister, who is accustomed to employ 

‘her hands in the services of domestic life, is, 
on these occasions, rich in resources. She 
feels the pain she has been compelled to give, 
and calculates how much she has to make 
up. It is a time for tenfold effort; but it 
must be effort without display. In a gentle 
and unobtrusive manner, she does some ex- 
tra service for her brother, choosing what 
would otherwise be degrading in its own na- 
ture, in order to prove in the most delicate 
manner, that though she can see a fault in 


_this world affords. 


him, she still esteems herself his inferior, and |} 
though she is cruel enough to point it out, 
her love is yet so deep and pure as to sweet- 
en every service she can render him. 

It is impossible for the hugan heart to re- 
sist this kind of evidence, and hence arises 
the strong influence that women possess 
over the moral feelings of those with whom 
they are intimately associated. 

If such, then, be the effect of kindness and 
consideration upon the heart of man, what 
must we expect when it operates in all its 
force and all its sweetness upon that of wo- 
man. In her intercourse with man, it is im- 
possible but that woman should feel her own 
inferiority ; and it is right that it should be 
so. Yet, feeling this, it is also impossible but 
that the weight of social and moral duties 
she is called upon to perform, must, to an 
unsanctified spirit, at times appear oppres- 
sive. She has innumerable sources of dis- 
quietude, too, in which no man can partake ; 
and from the very weakness and suscepti- 
bility of her own nature, she has need of 
sympathies which it would be impossible for 
him to render. She does not. meet him 
upon equal terms. Her part is to make sac- 
rifices, in order that his enjoyment may be 
enhanced. She does this with a willing 
spirit; but from error of judgment, or want 
of consideration, she does it so often without 
producing any adequate result, and so often 
without grateful acknowledgment, that her 
spirit sometimes sinks within her, and she 
shrinks back from the cares and anxieties of 
every day, with a feeling that the burden of 
life is too heavy to be borne. 

Nor is the man to be blamed for this. He 
knows not half the foolish fears that agitate 
her breast. He could not be made to know, 
still less to understand, the intensity of her 
capability of suffering, from slight, and what 
to him would appear inadequate causes. 
But women do know what their sex is formed 
to suffer; and for this very, reason, there is 
sometimes a bond existing between sisters, 
the most endearing, the most pure and disin- 
terested of any description of affection which 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


69 


Iam the more inclined to think that the 
strength of this bond arises chiefly out of 
their mutual knowledge of each other’s ca- 
pability of receiving pain ; because, in fami- 
lies whose circumstances are uniformly easy, 
and who have never known the visitation of 
any deep affliction, we often see the painful 
spectacle of sisters forming obstacles to each 
other in their progress both to temporal and 
eternal happiness. They seem to think the 
hey-day of life so unlikely to be clouded, 
that they can afford, wantonly and perversely, 
to intercept the sunshine that would other- 
wise fall upon each other’s path ; or to cal- 
culate so confidently upon the continued 
smoothness of the stream of time, that they 
sportively drive each other upon the rocks 
and the quicksands, which, even in the glad 
season of youth, will occasionally appear ; 
while the very fact of knowing each other’s 
weak points of character, while it ought to 
excite their utmost tenderness, only affords 
them subjects for tormenting sarcasm, and 
biting scorn. 

I have heard of hackney-coachmen in a 
certain highly civilized metropolis, who adopt 
the cruel practice of lashing a galled or 
wounded part, if they can find one in the 
wretched animals they drive; but I hardly 
think the practice, abhorrent as it is, de- 
mands our condemnation more than that of 
the women who are thus false and cruel to 
each other—who, because they know exactly 
where to wound, apply the instrument of tor- 
ture to the mind, unsparingly, and with the 
worst effect. 

Let us glance hastily over the humiliating 
supposition that such a propensity does ac- 
tually exist among women. Let us glance 
hastily, too, over the long train of minute and 
irremediable evils which the exercise of such 
a propensity is calculated to produce—the 
wounded feeling, the imagined injury, the 
suspicious dread, the bitter retort, and the 
secretly-cherished revenge. It is not enough 
for those who practise such habits to say, “I 
mean no harm: I love my sister, and would 
do her any signal service in my power.” 
Opportunities of performing signal services 


do not often fall in our way; but while we 
wait.for these, we have opportunities innu- 
merable of soothing or irritating the feelings 
of others, as our own dispositions prompt— 
of repelling or attacking—of weaning affec- 
tion, or of inspiring confidence; and these 
ends are easily obtained, by the manner in 
which we conduct ourselves towards those 
whom Providence has placed immediately 
around us. Le 

So many young women, however, escape 
the censure here implied, by their self-com- 
placency on the score of general kindness, 
that it may, perhaps, be as well to speak 
more explicitly on this important subject. It 
is not, then, to direct unkindness that I refer, 
but to that general absence of kind consider- 
ation, which produces the same effect. Per- 
haps one sister is unreasonably elated at the 
success of some of her plans: and in the 
midst of her ecstatic joy she finds herself 
mimicked with all the air of ineffable con- 
tempt, by another. Perhaps one sister is 
rather unusually depressed in spirits from 
some incommunicable cause: the others pre- 
tend to weep, and make her gravity the sub- 
ject of their merriment. Perhaps, in a mo- 
ment of extreme embarrassment, she has 
committed some breach of good breeding, or 
looked awkward, or spoken foolishly: she 
finds afterwards that watchful eyes have been 
upon her, and that her every tone and move- 
ment have been the subject of ridicule in a little 
coterie of her sisters and her friends. Above 


all, perhaps she has gone a little too far in 


meeting the attentions of the other sex, and 
a merciless outcry is raised against her, with 
her sisters at its head. 

Besides all this, there are often the strong 
wills of both parties set in opposition to each 
other, with a pertinacity that time itself is 
unable to subdue. For if, from the necessity 
of circumstances, one sister has on one occa- 
sion been compelled to give way, she is only 
fortified with fresh resolution for the next 
point of dispute, that she may enjoy her turn 
of victory and triumph. These disputes are 
often about the merest trifles in the world, 
things so entirely worthless and unimportant 


LL ae Ie eR RR a eee 


nn i LES 
Or RR RR A A RSE YR AG AR aN EE ER EE 


rg 


——_. 


70 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


in themselves, that to find they have been 
the cause of angry words or bitter feelings, 
may well excite our astonishment, at the 
same time that it ought to teach us fresh 
lessons of distrust of ourselves, of humility, 
and watchful care. ' 

It is in this manner that sisters will some- 
times embitter their early days, and make 
what ought to be the bower of repose, a scene 
of rivalry and strife. But let us change this 
harsh picture, and turn to the sunnier hours 
of youthful love, when sisters who have 
shared one home in childhood, then separa- 
ted by adverse circumstances, return, after 
the lapse of years, to enjoy a few brief days 
of heart-communings beneath the same roof 
again. How lovely then are the morning 
hours, when they rise with the sun to length- 
en out the day! They seat themselves in 
the old window, where their little childish 
hands were wont to pluck the tendrils of the 
rambling vine. They look out upon the 
lawn, and it is arrayed in the same green as 
when they gambolled there. The summer- 
apple tree, from whence they shook the rosy 
fruit, has moss upon its boughs; and the 
spreading ash reminds them they are no 
longer able to climb its topmost branch. 
What vicissitudes have they known—what 
change of place and circumstance have they 
experienced—since they planted the small 
osier that now stands a stately willow by the 
stream! We will not ask what cruel neces- 
sity first drove them separately from this 
peaceful abode—what blight fell on their 
prospects—what ruin on their hopes. Are 
they not sisters unchanged in their affec- 
tion?—and in this very consciousness they 


have a world of wealth. Where is the keen, _ 


contemptuous gaze of satire now? Where 
are the bickerings, the envyings, the words 
of provocation? They would esteem it sac- 
rilege to profane that place and hour with 
other thoughts than those of kindness. The 
mote and the beam have vanished from their 
eyes; they know each other’s faults, but 
they behold them only to pity and forgive, or 
speak of them only to correct. Each heart 
is laid bare before the others, and the oil and 


wine are poured in to heal the wounds which 
the stranger has made. Each has her own 
store of painful experience to unfold; and 
she weeps to find her sister’s greater than 
her own. Each has had her share of insult, 
coldness, and neglect; and she is roused to 
indignation by hearing that her sister has had 
the same. Self becomes as nothing in com- 
parison with the intense interest excited by a 
sister’s experience; and as the secret anxie- 
ties of each bosom are revealed, fresh floods 
of tenderness are called forth, and the early 
bond of childhood, strengthened by vicissi- 
tudes and matured by time, is woven yet: 
more closely around the hearts of all. Thus 
they go forth into the world again, strong in 
the confidence of that unshaken love which 
formed the sunshine of their childhood, and 
is now the solace of their riper years. They 
may weep the tears of the alien in the stran- 
ger’s home, but they look forward to the 
summer-days of heart-warm confidence, when 
they shall meet again with the loveliest and 
the most beloved of all earth’s treasures, and 
the wintry hours pass over them bereft of 
half their power to blight. 

If such be the experience, and such the 
enjoyments of sisters separated by affliction, 
what must be the privileged lot of those, 
who, without any change of fortune, any fall- 
ing off from the golden promise of early life, 
or any heart-rending bereavement, learn the 
happy art of finding their enjoyment in each 
other, by studying what will make each other 
happy? There may be faithful friendships 
formed in after years; but where a sister is 
a sister’s friend, there can be none so tender, 
and none so true. For a brother, she may 
possibly entertain a more romantic attach- 
ment, because the difference in their circum- 
stances may afford more to interest their 
feelings; but there is one universal point of 
failure in the friendship that exists between 
brothers and sisters—when a man marries, 
he finds in his wife all that he valued in his 
sister, with a more endearing sense of cer- 
tainty in its possession; and when a woman 
marries, she finds all that she needed in the 
way of friendship and protection, with more 


of tenderness, of interest, and identity, than 
it was possible for her to experience in the 
affection of her brother. Hence there arises, 
even in the uncalculating breast of youth, a 
suspicion that this friendship cannot last: 
and the breaking up of those establishments 
in which the sister has regulated the domes- 
tic affairs of her brother, is often a melancholy 
proof that the termination of their intimacy 
ought to have been calculated upon with 
more certainty than it generally is. 

With sisters the case is widely different. 
They may seek in vain, through all the high 
and noble attributes of man, for that which 
is to be found alone in the true heart of wo- 
man; and, weak themselves, susceptible, de- 
pendent, and holding their happiness as it 
were with a sword suspended above their 
| heads, they have need to be faithful to each 
other. 

No friend in after life can know so well as 
a sister what is the peculiar and natural bias 
of the character. Education may change the 
manners, and circumstances may call new 
faculties to light ; but the old leaven remains 
at the heart’s core, and a sister knows it well. 

Women often share with other friends en- 
{| joyments in which their sisters take no part ; 
but they have not roamed together over that 
garden whose very weeds are lovely—the 
fertile and luxuriant garden of childhood; 
they have not drank together at that foun- 
tain whose bubbling waters are ever bright 
and pure—the early fountain of domestic joy ; 
and the absence of this one charm in their 
friendship, must necessarily shut them out 
from participation in a world of associations, 
more dear, more beautiful, and more endur- 
ing than the longest after life can supply. I 
know not how it is with others, but it seems 
to me, that there never is—there never can 
be, amusement so original, so piquant, and so 
fraught with glee, as that which is enjoyed 
among happy sisters at their own fireside, 
or in their chamber, where one hardly would 
deny them ail their idle hours of laughter 
and delight. The very circumstances which 
to one alone would have been a burden of 
_heavy care, when participated in, are nothing ; 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


71 


and the mere fact of talking over all their 
daily trials, sets every bosom free to beat and 
bound with a new life. 

We must not however forget, it is in sea- 
sons of affliction that we prove the real value 
of the deep well-spring of a sister’s love. 
Other hands, and hands perhaps as skilful, 
may smooth our couch in sickness. Other 
voices may speak words of kindness in our 
hour of need, and other eyes may beam upon 
us with tenderness and love; but can they 
ever be like the hands that joined with ours 
in twining the rosy wreaths of infancy—the 
voices that spoke sweetly to us in the tones 
of childhood—the eyes that gazed with ours, 
in all the wonder of first dawning thought, 
abroad upon the beautiful creation, over the 
earth and sea, the green hills, and the waving 
woods, and up to the starry heavens, that 


page of glory too bright for human eye to 


read ? 

No; there is something in the home-fel- 
lowship of early life, that we cannot, if we 
would, shake off in the days of darkness and 
distress, when sickness clouds the brow, and |} 
grief sits heavily upon the heart. It is then 
that we pine for the faithful hand, the voice 
that was an echo to our own, and the kin- 
dred countenance so familiar in our childhood; 
and sisters who are kindly affectioned one 
towards another, are not slow to answer this 
appeal of nature. Tender and delicate wo- 
men are not backward to make sacrifices in 
such a cause. They will hasten upon diffi- 
cult and dangerous journeys, without feeling 
the perils they undergo. The anticipated 
accidents of time and chance have no weight 
with them, for self is annihilated by the over- 
whelming power of their affection. Obsta- 
cles cannot hinder, nor persuasion retard 
their purpose: a sister suffers, and, they es- 
teem it their highest privilege to assert, in 
defiance of all opposition, the indisputable 
claims of a sister’s love. They have an in- 


alienable right to share in her calamity, what- 
ever it may be, and this right they will not 
resign to another. 

But what shall stay my pen, when I touch 
upon this fertile and inexhaustible theme? 


72 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


Sisters who have never known the deepest, 
holiest influence of a sister’s love, will not be 
enabled, from any definition I can offer, to 
understand the purity, and the refreshing 
power of this well-spring of human happiness. 
Sisters who have known this, will also know 
that its height and its depth are beyond the 
power of language to describe ; that it is, in- 
deed, the love which many waters cannot 
quench, neither can the floods drown it. 

Is it not, then, worth all the cost of the 
most studious consideration, the most care- 
ful kindness, to win this treasure, and to make 
it ours? to purchase this gem, and to wear 
it next our hearts? I have pointed out some 
of the means by which it may be lost or won: 
I will now point out the most important rea- 
sons why it should be cherished with un- 
ceasing assiduity. 

_ Sisters have an almost unbounded influ- 
ence over each other; and all influence im- 
plies a proportionate degree of moral respon- 
sibility. The tone and temper of the human 
mind must be closely watched, and intimate- 
.ly studied, in order to apply with effect the 
means of benefit. The most zealous endea- 
vors to do good, may fail for want of oppor- 
tunity ; but opportunity never can be want- 
ing to those who share the same domestic 
hearth, who sit at the same board, and oc- 
cupy the same chamber of rest. There must, 
with such, be unveilings of the heart before 
each other. There must be seasons for ad- 
ministering advice, and for imparting instruc- 
tion, which the stranger never can command. 
But without the practice of those habits of 
kindness and consideration, so earnestly re- 
commended here, the nearest relative, even 
the sister, may be placed on the same footing 
as the stranger, and have no more familiar 
access to. the heart than the mere acquaint- 
ance. . 

It is therefore most important to the true 
Christian, whose desire is to invite others to 
a participation in the blessings she enjoys, 
that she should seek to promote the happi- 
ness of those around her, in such a way as 
to render them easy and familiar in her pres- 
ence, and to convince them that she is in 


word and deed their friend. Until this object 
is attained, little good can be done in the way 
of influence ; but this secured, innumerable 
channels are opened, by which an enlighten- 
ed mind may operate beneficially upon others. 

We will imagine the case of a sister, whose 
feelings have been recently impressed with 
the importance of some hitherto unpractised 
duty, and who, at a loss how to begin with 
that improvement in her daily conduct which 
conscience points out as necessary to her 
peace, shrinks from the notice of the world, 
abashed at the idea of assuming more than 
she has been accustomed to maintain. With 
what fear and trembling will such a one, in 
her closet or her chamber, at the close of the 
summer’s evening, or by the last glimmer of 
the winter’s fire, when she and her sister 
share the silent hours of night together, un- 
fold the burden of her spirit, and reveal the 
inner workings of her troubled mind! What 
should we say of a sister who treated this 
confidence with treachery, with ridicule or 
spleen? What should we say, but that she 
deserved to find the heart she has thus in- 
sulted a sealed book to her forever? What 
should we say, on the other hand, of her 
who met this confidence with tenderness and 
respect? T’hat she enjoyed one of the great- 
est privileges permitted usin this our imperfect 
and degraded state, the privilege of imparting 
consolation and instruction at the same time, 
and of binding to her bosom the fond affec- 
tion of a sister, as her comfort and support 
through all her after years. 

It isa common remark for sisters to make 
upon each other, that they would have paid 
some deference to the religious scruple, or the 
pious wish, had it originated with a more 
consistent person. ‘They should remember, 
that there must be a dawning of imperfect 
light, to usher in the perfect day; and that 
he who crushes the first germ of vegetation, 
commits an act equivalent to that of him who 
fells the stately tree. They should remem- 
ber also it is not only the great and public ef- 
forts of Christian benevolence and charity, 
that are owned of God, and blessed with his 
approval; but that at the hour of midnight, | 
| 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


73 


in the secret chamber, when the world takes 
no cognizance of our actions, His eye beholds 
them, and his ear is open to detect the slight- 
est whisper that conveys its blessing or its 
bane to the heart of a familiar friend. 


CHAPTER IX. 


DOMESTIC HABITS,—CONSIDERATION AND 
KINDNESS. 


THERE yet remain some aspects of human 
life, which it is impossible to pass over with- 
out the most earnest solicitude, that even if 
in all other capacities woman should forget 
her responsibilities, she might remember what 
is due from her in these. It is, then, to the 
sacred and inalienable bond between a daugh- 
ter and her parents, that our attention must 
now be given. sh 

It’would seem but reasonable to suppose, 
that as soon as an amiable young woman of 
even partially enlightened mind, attained that 
stage of maturity when most rational beings 
begin to make use of their own powers of 
observation, she would naturally be led to 
reflect upon the situation of her mother, to 
contemplate her character and habits, and to 
regard with sympathy at least, the daily and 
hourly fatigues and anxieties which the na- 
ture of her domestic circumstances renders 
it necessary for her to undergo. If the young 
person has brothers or sisters less advanced 
in life than herself, she cannot fail to observe 
the assiduity, with which all their wants are 
provided for by maternal care, as well as the 
self-denial and disinterested love, by which 
their safety is guarded, and their happiness 
preserved. 

It is equalty reasonable to suppose, that 
having such interesting subjects of grateful 
and affectionate consideration continually 
present to her eye, and to her mind, the 
young person would reason thus: “In this 
manner my mother has watched over me. 
Through long nights of weariness and ex- 
haustion she has rocked me in her arms, and 


stilled the sighs of her own bosom, from the 
fear of disturbing my repose. Not only has 
she denied herself every amusement and 
every gratification that would have drawn 
her away from the sphere of my childish pas- 
times, but also the wonted recreations neces- 
sary for the preservation of her health; until 
her cheek grew pale, and her step feeble in 
my service. I was then unable to make any 
other return than by my infantine caresses; 
and often when she was the most weary, or 
the most enfeebled, my pampered selfishness 
was the most requiring. Thus I have in- 
curred a debt of gratitude, for the repayment 
of which the limit of a natural life will .scarce- 
ly be sufficient. The summer of her exist- 
ence is waning, mine is yet to come. I will 
so cultivate my feelings, and regulate my 
habits, as to enjoy the happiness of sharing 
her domestic burdens, and thus prove to her 
that 1am not unmindful of the benefit I have 
myself derived from the long-suffering of a 
mother’s love.” 

Do we find this to be the prevailing feel- 
ing among the young ladies of the present 
day? Do we find the respected and vener- 
ated mother so carefully cherished, that she 
is permitted to sit in perfect peace, the pre- 
siding genius, as she ought to be, over every 
department of domestic comfort—her cares 
lightened by participation with her affection- 
ate daughters, her mind relieved of its bur- 
dens by their watchful love, herself arrayed 
in the best attire, as a-badge of her retirement | 
from active duty, and smiling as the steps of 
time glide past her, because she knows that 
younger feet are walking in her own sweet 
ways of pleasantness and peace ? 

Is this the picture presented in the present 
day by the far-famed homes of England? 
Do we not rather find the mother, the faith- 
ful and time-worn mother of the family, not 
only the moving spring of all domestic man- 
agement, but the actual working power, by 
which every household plan is carried into 
practical effect? I refer of course to cases 
where domestics are few, and pecuniary 
means not over abundant, where we see the 
mother hastening with anxious solicitude to 


ES 


a Se ce ta Saipan aoe 


74 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


answer every call from every member of the 
family ; as if her part in the duties of life was 
not only to have waited upon her children in 
infancy, but to conduct them to an easy and 
luxurious old age; in short, to spare their 
feet from walking, their hands from labor, and 
their heads from thought. 

I know that it is mistaken kindness in the 
mother to allow herself thus to become a 
household drudge. I know also that young 
ladies are easily satisfied with what appears 
to them a reasonable excuse, that “ mamma 
prefers doing all these things herself,” that 
“she is such a dear kind soul, they would 
not rob her even of the merit of mending 
their own garments.” But let me ask how 
often she prefers doing these things herself, 
simply because of their unwillingness to do 
them; and how their ungracious manner, 
when they have been asked to relieve her, 
has wounded her patient spirit, and rendered 
it less irksome to her to do the hardest man- 
ual labor, than to ask them again? Let me 
remind them also, that there is a habit of 
doing things so awkwardly, that you will not 
be likely to be called upon for your services 
a second time; and whether by accident or 
design, I will not presume to say, but some 
young ladies certainly appear to be great 
adepts in this method of performing their 
duties. 

It is a most painful spectacle in families 
where the mother is the drudge, to see the 
daughters elegantly dressed, reclining at 
their ease, with their drawing, their music, 
their fancy-work, and their light reading ; be- 
guiling themselves of the lapse of hours, 
days, and weeks, and never dreaming of 
their responsibilities; but, as a necessary 
consequence of the neglect of duty, growing 
weary of their useless lives, laying hold of 
every newly invented stimulant to rouse their 
drooping energies, and blaming their fate 
when they dare not blame their God, for 
having placed them where they are. 

These individuals will often tell you with 
‘an air of affected compassion—for who can 
believe it real’—that “ poor dear mamma is 


working herself to death.” Yet no sooner 


emer 


Se eS ee ee ee 


do you propose that they should assist her, |] 
than they declare she is quite in her element 
—in short, that she would never be happy if 
she had only half as much to do. 

I have before observed, that it is not diffi- 
cult to ascertain, on entering a family, whether 
the female members of it are, or are not ac- 
tuated by habits of kindness and considera- 
tion; and in no instance is it more easily 
detected than in the behavior of the daugh- 
ters to their mother. We have probably all 
seen elegant and accomplished young ladies 
doing the honors of the house to their guests, 
by spreading before them that lavish profu- 
sion of books and pictures, with which every 
table of every drawing-room is, in these mod- 
ern times, adorned. We have heard them 
expatiate with taste and enthusiasm upon the 
works of art, upon the beauties of foreign 
scenery, and the delights of travelling abroad ; 
while the mother is simultaneously engaged 
in superintending the management of the 
viands about to be spread before the com- 
pany, or in placing the last leaf of garniture 
around the dessert, upon which her daugh- 
ters have never condescended to bestow a 
thought. 

It is easy, in these cases, to see by the anx- 
ious and perturbed appearance of the mistress 
of the house, when she does at last appear, 
that she has no assistance, but that which a 
very limited number of domestics could ren- 
der, behind the scenes; that every variety of 
the repast which her guests are pressed to 
partake of, has cost her both trouble to invent 
and labor to prepare; and we feel that we 
are regaling ourselves too much at her ex- 
pense. 

There is a painful contrast between the 
care and anxiety depicted on her brow, and 
the indifference—the real or pretended igno- 
rance with which the young ladies speak, 
when it is absolutely necessary, of any of | 
those culinary compositions which they re- 
gard as belonging exclusively to the depart- | 
ment of mothers and servants. If by any | 
possible mischance, the good woman alludes 
to the flavor of her compounds, wishing, 
purely for the sake of her guests, that she | 


== 


had added a little more of the salt, or the 
| cinnamon,—indications of nausea, accompa- 
nied by symptoms of indignation and disgust, 
immediately manifest themselves among the 
young ladies, and they really wonder what 
mamma will be absurd enough to say next. 

It is in such families as this, that, not only 
on days of leisure, but on days when extra 
services are sure to be wanted in the home 
department, the daughters always find some 
pressing call upon their attention out of doors. 
They have their morning calls to make; and 
there is that mysterious shopping to attend 
to, that never hasan end. Indeed, one would 

- || almost think, from the frequency with which 
I) they resort to some of the most fashionable 
shops in town, that each of these young 
ladies had: a peculiar taste for the mode of 
life prevailing in this particular sphere of 
exertion, were it not for the indignation she 
manifests at the remotest hint upon the duty 

of assisting her father in his. 

It is astonishing how duties out of doors 
accumulate upon persons who are glad of 
any excuse to escape from those at home. 
No one can deny the necessity they are un- 
der of pursuing that course of mental im- 
provement begun at school; and there are 
lectures on every science to be attended, bor- 
rowed books to be returned, and little coter- 
ies of studious young people to join in their 
morning classes. 

It is also curious to observe that these 
young ladies who can with difficulty be in- 

duced to move about in their own homes, 
even to spare their mother’s weary feet, who 
esteem it an act of oppression in her to send 
them to the highest apartment of the house, 
and of degradation in themselves to descend | 
to the lowest,—it is curious to observe how 
these regard themselves as under an abso- 
lute necessity to walk out every day for their 
health, and how they choose that precise 
time for walking when their mothers are 
most busy, and their domestic peace, by a 
natural consequence, most likely to be in- 
vaded. 

I would touch, with extreme delicacy, upon 
another branch of public occupation, because 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


ee ay 
75 


I believe it to be entered upon, in innumera- 
ble instances, with feelings which do honor 
to humanity, and to that religion, under 
whose influence alone, such avocations can 
be faithfully carried on. But I must confess, 
there appears to me some. ground to fear, 
that the amusement of doing public good, the 
excitement it produces, and especially the 
exemption it purchases from domestic re- 
quirements, has something to do with the 
zeal evinced by some young females to be 
employed as instruments in the dissemination 
of religious knowledge, and the augmentation 
of funds appropriated to benevolent uses. 

Fearing, however, lest what might assume 
even the faintest coloring of uncharitableness, 
should fall from my pen on this delicate but 
most important subject, I will leave it with 
the individuals thus engaged, as fitter for 
their consideration, than for my remark. 
The world takes cognizance of their actions, 
and it is perhaps occasionally too lavish in 
its bestowment of their praises. But the 
world is a false friend, for it can applaud 
where there is little real merit, and condemn 
where there ought to be no blame. 

Let not the really faithful and sincere be || 
hurt by these insinuations. Their cause is 
beyond the penetration of man, and their real 
springs of action are known, where alone they 
can be truly estimated,—where alone they can 
meet with their just reward. 

How different from the feelings called forth 
by habits such as I have just described, are 
those with which we take up our abode in a 
family, where we know that the morning sun 
has risen upon daughters, who meet its early 
beams with the cheerful determination, that 
whatever may be the business of the day, 
their hands, and not their mother’s, shall do 
the actual work! Her experience, and her 
ever-guiding judgment, may direct their la- 
bors; but she who has so often toiled and 
watched for them, shall at least enjoy another 
opportunity of seeing how gladly and how 
richly they can repay the debt. 'The first 
thought that occupies their minds, is, how to 
guard her precious health. They meet her 
in the morning with affectionate solicitude, 


and look to see if her cheek has become less 
pale; whether her smile is languid, or cheer- 
ful—her step, weary or light. 

I must again repeat, that one of the surest 
tests of true disinterested love is this readi- 
ness to detect indisposition. Persons who 
are in theshabit of cherishing antipathies, 
seldom believe in the minor ailments of those 
they dislike. These facts render it the more 
surprising, that daughters should not always 
see the symptoms of exhausted strength, 
which too frequently manifest themselves in 
industrious and care-taking mothers; that 
they should not watch with the tenderest 
anxiety the slightest indication of their Valu- 
able health being liable to decay. Yet so it 
is, that the mother of a family, who cares for 
every ailment in her household, is the last to 
be cared for herself, except in cases affording 
those beautiful exemplifications of filial duty 
to which allusion has just been made. 

With daughters who are sensible of the 
strong claims of a mother’s love, no care can 
be too great, no solicitude too tender, to be- 
stow upon that beloved parent. ‘They know 
that if deprived of this friend of their infancy 
—this guide of their erring feet—the world 
will be comparatively poor to them: and as 
the miser guards his hoarded treasure, they 
guard the life, for which that world would be 
incapable of supplying a substitute. 

There are few subjects of contemplation 
more melancholy, than the waste of human 
love which the aspect of this world presents 
—of deep, tender, untiring, disinterested love, 
bestowed in such a manner as tu meet no ade- 
quate return: and what must be the harvest 
gathered in, to a mother’s faithful bosom, 
when she finds that she has reared up chil- 
dren who are too refined to share her humble 
cares, too learned and too clever to waste 
their talents on a sphere of thought and ac- 
tion like her own, and too much engaged in 
the pursuit of intellectual attainments, even 
to think of her! 

Yet to whom do we look for consolation 
when the blight of sickness or sorrow falls 
upon our earthly peace, but to a mother! 
And who but a mother is invited to partake 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


Sn nn ett nItyaIE Inna SE NNER ereenereeeeee ere eeenEEREIEES 


of our afflictions or our trials? Ifthe stigma 
of worldly degradation falls upon us, we fly 
to a mother’s love, for that mantle of charity 
which is denied elsewhere. With more hon- 
ored and distinguished associates, we may. 
have smiled away the golden hours of life’s 
young prime; but the bitter tears of experi- 
ence are wept upon a mother’s bosom. We 
keep for our summer friends the amusing 
story, the brilliant witticism, or the intellectual | 
discourse; but we tell to a mother’s ear the 
tale of our distress, and the history of our 
wrongs. For all that belongs to the weak- 
ness and the wants of humanity, a mother’s 
affection is sorely taxed; why then should 
not daughters have the noble feeling to say 
before the world, and to let their actions speak 
the same language,—* This is my earliest and 
my best friend ?” 

It is true, the mother may be far behind the | 
daughter in the accomplishments of modern | 
education; she may, perhaps, occasionally | 
betray her ignorance of polite literature, or’ 
her want of acquaintance with the customs 
of polished society. But how can this in 
any way affect the debt of obligation exist- 
ing between her daughter and herself? or 
how can it lessen the validity of her claim to 
gratitude for services received, and esteem 
for the faithfulness with which those services 
have been performed? 

Let us not believe of the young ladies of 
the present day that they can for any length- 
ened period, allow the march of mind to out- 
run the growth of their kindly feelings. Let 
us rather hope the time is coming when they 
will exhibit to the world that beautiful exem- 
plification of true dignity—a high degree of 
intellectual culture rendered conducive to the 
happiness of those who claim their deepest 
gratitude, and their tenderest affection. 

The next view we propose to take of the 
domestic habits of the women of this favored 
country, is that of their behavior in the rela- 
tion between daughters and fathers. 

The affection existing between fathers and 
daughters, is a favorite theme with writers 
both of romance and reality ; and the familiar 
walks of life, we doubt not, are rich in in- 


ae Mit CHR Ge MAR 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 77 


stances of this peculiar kind of affection ex- 
isting-in a lovely, and most unquestionable 
form. Still there are points of view in which 
this subject, as illustrated by the customs of 
society in the present day, cannot be con- 
templated without pain. 

I have often had occasion to speak of the 
duties of women towards their fathers, broth- 
ers, husbands, and sons, when engaged in 
the active pursuits of trade; and there is an 
anomaly presented by society of this class in 
England, which I am particularly anxious to 
point out to the rising generation. 

There are vast numbers of worthy and in- 
dustrious men, not only of the young and the 
‘middle-aged, but of those who are sinking 
into the vale of years, who spend almost the 
whole of their waking lives in scenes and 
occupations, from which almost every thing 
in the shape of enjoyment must necessarily 
| be shut out. 

In looking into the shops, the warehouses, 
the offices, and the counting-houses, of our 
commercial and manufacturing towns, we 
are struck with the destitution of comfort 
| which everywhere prevails, and we ask,— 
“Are these the abodes of free-born, indepen- 
; dent men ?”’ 

I should be sorry to be weak enough to 
suppose that an honest and industrious man 
may not be just as happy when he treads on 
boards, as when he treads on Turkey carpets; 
yet again, when we begin the early day with 
such individuals, and see what their occupa- 
tions actually are, from nine in the morning, 
often until late in the afternoon or evening, 
for weeks, and months, and years, with 
scarcely any respite or relaxation, we natu- 
rally ask how are the wives and daughters of 
these men employed? For surely if there be 
| a necessity for the father of the family to be 
situated thus, the kinder and more disinter- 
ested members of his household must be 
dwelling in abodes even more uncongenial 
and revolting than these. It is but reasona- 
ble to expect that we should find them in 
apartments less luxurious in their furniture, 
with windows less pervious to the light of 
day, their persons perched upon harder stools, 


and altogether accommodated in an inferior 
manner. And this we are led to expect, 
simply because it is difficult to believe of 
generous-hearted women, that they would 
be willing to enjoy indulgences purchased at 
the sacrifice of the comfort of those they love, 
and by the degradation of those whom they 
look up to as their superiors. 

Perhaps we are told that to man it is no 
sacrifice to spend his life in these dungeon- 
like apartments, shut in from the pure air, 
and compelled to deal with the extreme mi- 
nutiee of what is neither interesting nor dig- 
nified in itself{—that he regards not these tri- 
fling inconveniences, that he is accustomed 
to them, and that they are what the world 
esteems as manly and befitting; yet on being 
invited to pay our respects to the ladies of 
the family, we find ourselves transported into 
a scene so entirely different from that of his 
daily toil, that we are led to exclaim,—* How | 
opposite must be the tastes of men and wo- | 
men in this sphere of life, in England!” <A 
little more acquaintance with their domestic 
habits, however, enables us to discover that 
their tastes are not so different as their cir- 
cumstances, and that the cares, the anxieties, 
and the actual Jabor, which the man is under- 
going every day, are placing him on a very 
different footing, with-regard to personal com- 
fort, from the females of his household. — 

And how do the women strive to soothe 
these cares, to relieve these anxieties, and to 
lighten these labors? Do they not often make 
their own personal expenses extend to the 
extreme limit that his means will afford? Do 
they not dress, and visit, receive visitors, and 
practise all those elegant accomplishments, 
which their father’s exertions have been tax- 
ed to pay for. 

I know that the blame does not always rest 
with the female members of the family, but 
that men, especially when they first marry, 
are often pleased to behold their wives array- 
ed in the most costly habiliments which their 
means can procure: in addition to this, they 
believe that their interest in the world is ad- || 
vanced by keeping up a certain degree of 
costly display, both in dress and furniture. | 


78 


As time advances, however, and their spirits 
grow less buoyant under the pressure of ac- 
cumulated cares, especially if these cares have 
been unproductive of so golden a harvest as 
they had anticipated, and when daughters are 
growing up to double—nay, to treble their 
mother’s expenditure, by adding all the ima- 
gined essentials of modern refinement; the 
father then perceives, perhaps too late to re- 
trieve his ruined circumstances, the error into 
which he has been led; and fain would he 
then, in the midst of his bitter regrets, per- 
suade his daughters to begin to think and act 
upon different principles from those which he 
has himself so thoughtlessly instilled. 

Perhaps the father is sinking into the vale 
of years, his spirit broken, and some of the 
growing infirmities of age stealing insidiously 
upon him. His manly figure begins to stoop, 
his eye grows dim, and he comes home weary 
from his daily labor. What a melancholy 
picture is presented by the image of such a 
man going forth in public, with his gaily and 
expensively dressed daughters fluttering by 
his side! 

Nor is this all. Let us follow them home. 
He rises early, wearied and worn as he is, 
and, snatching a hasty breakfast before his 
daughters have come down, goes forth to his 
daily avocations, leaving them to their morn- 
ing calls, light reading, and fancy-work, until 
his return. At the close of the day, his step 
is again heard on the threshold. He has be- 
gun to feel that the walk is too much for him. 
Conveyances, in countless numbers, have 
passed him on his way, but these are not 
times for him to afford the luxury of riding, 
for a rival tradesman has just opened a tempt- 
ing establishment in the neighborhood of his 
own, and the evils of competition are destroy- 
ing half his gains. With a jaded look and 
feeble step, then, he enters his home. He 
wipes the gathering dew from his wrinkled 
forehead, sits down with a sigh almost 
amounting to a groan of despondency, and 
then looks round upon the well- furnished par- 
lor, where the ladies of his family spend their 
idle hours. 

We will not libel the daughters so far as to 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


say, they are guilty of neglect in not inviting 
him to partake of his evening meal. "They 
may even press their kisses on his cheek, and 
express their welcome in the warmest terms. 
Supposing they have done all this, and that 
he is beginning to feel invigorated and re- 
freshed, perhaps revived a little in his spirit 
by this evidence of their affection, at length 
he smiles ; and that smile has been eagerly 
watched for, as the indication that his heart is 
warming into generosity. 

Now is the auspicious time: “ Papa, dear, 
have you ever thought again of the silk cloaks 
you promised us, as soon as Mr. Moody’s bill 
was paid?) And Emma wants a velvet bon- |} 
net this winter. And papa, dear, where did || 
you say we could get the best satin shoes | 
“My love,” says the wife, in a graver, and 
more important tone, “These poor girls are |} 
sadly in want of drawing-paper—indeed, of |} 
pencils, and of every thing belonging to. their 
drawing ; for you know it is of no use having 
a master to teach them, unless we provide 
them with the necessary materials. And Isa- 
bella’s music—I was positively ashamed to 
hear her play those old pieces again at Mrs. 
Melburn’s last night.” 

We have seen pictures of birds of prey 
hovering about their dying victim; but I |{ 
doubt whether a still more repulsive and mel- |} 
ancholy picture might not be made, of a man 
of business in the decline of life, when he 
naturally asks for repose, spurred and goaded 
into fresh exertions, by the artificial wants and 
insatiable demands of his wife and daugh- 
ters. 
The root of the evil, I grant to be, not so 
much in the hard hearts of the individuals 
here ‘described, as in the system of false re- 
finement which prevails in this country. But 
whatever the cause or the remedy may be, 
those will be happy days for England, when 
her noble-minded women, despite the preju- 
dices of early education, shall stand forth be- 
fore the world, and show that they dare be ||. 
dutiful daughters rather than ladies of fash- || 
ion; and that the principles of integrity, gen- 
erdsity, and natural feeling, have taught them 
never to wish for enjoyment purchased by 


the sacrifice of a father’s health, or a hus- 
band’s peace. 

I know not whether it often occurs to the 
young, or only to those whose experience has 
been of longer duration, to make this obser- 
vation upon human nature—that it is not 7n- 
tentional offence, or intentional injury, which 
always inflicts the severest pain. A mother 
who, by her ill-judged indulgence, fosters in 
her child a selfish and domineering temper, 
and thus renders such evil dispositions iden- 
tified with the very nature of that child, so 
that it is a stranger to any other principles of 
action, is as much hurt when, in after life, 
her child is selfish and domineering towards 
herself, as if he actually departed from his ac- 
customed line of conduct, for the purpose of 
being pointedly unkind fo her. In the same 
way, the father who has brought up his fam- 
ily in habits of extravagance, when he feels 
the tide of prosperity turning against him, for- 
gets that those habits are necessarily stronger 
than his reasoning, and is wounded to the 
soul to think that his daughters are not more 
considerate. Upon the same principle of 
groundless expectation, we often seé well- 
meaning but injudicious parents taking ex- 
treme pains to guard their children against 
one particular error in conduct, or one spe- 
cies of vice, yet neglecting to lay that only sure 
foundation of moral conduct which is to be 
found in religious principle ; and these, again, 
are shocked to find, as their children advance 
‘in life, that all their endeavors have been un- 
produetive of the desired result. Nor must 
I, while pointing out errors in the behavior 
of children towards their parents, omit to ob- 
serve, that if parents would be more solicit- 
ous to instil into their minds the importance 
of relative and social duties faithfully per- 
formed, instead of captiously reproving them 
for every deviation from the strict line of these 
duties, they would find themselves more hap- 
py in their families, more tenderly watched 
over in sickness and sorrow—more cherished 
and revered in the decline of life. 

Still, though the fault may, in some cases, 
have been originally with the parents, there 
is little excuse for daughters, who are of age 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


to think and act for themselves. Habit, we | 
know, is proverbially accounted second na- | 
ture ; but we know also, that even our first ! 
nature is capable of being changed. 

He who has become subject to a painful 
and dangerous disease, through the neglect 
or mismanagement of those who had _ the 
care of him in early life, does not content 
himself with saying it was the maltreatment 
of his nurse that brought upon him this ca- 
lamity. If the disease admits of remedy— 
if it even admits of alleviation—he is as earn- 
est in seeking out and applying the proper 
means of relief; as if he had been the sole 
cause of his own affliction. And shall we 
confine our powers of reasoning rightly, and 
acting promptly, to the promotion of the ben- 
efit of the body, and leave the immortal mind 
to suffer for eternity, without applying such 
remedies as are provided for its use? 

Whether the evil be in the original taint 
of our nature, or in the same nature inherent 
in another form, and operating upon us 
through the medium of injudicious treat- 
ment, we stand in precisely the same posi- 
tion with regard to moral responsibility, and 
accountability to the Searcher of all human 
hearts. 

It is right the tender sympathy of our | 
friends should be excited, when we tell them | 
that the faults for which they blame us were 
fostered and encouraged by the mistaken 
judgment of our parents in early life ; but 
there is a tribunal at which this plea will be 
of little avail, if, while the means of reforma- 
tion are yet within our reach, we suffer such 
habits to strengthen and establish themselves 
as part of our character; and I would earn- 
estly recommend to the young women of 
England, that they should rouse themselves, 
and act upon the first conviction, that the 
advantages resulting from what is called a 
finished education, are but so many addition- 
al talents lent them, for employment in the 
service of that gracious Father, who has 
charged his children with the keeping of 
each other’s happiness, and who, when he | 
instituted the parental bond, and filled the 
mother’s heart with love, and touched with | 


ea 


a 


80 


tenderness the father’s firmer soul, was 
pleased to appoint them after-years of weak- 
ness, suffering, and infirmity, when their chil- 
dren would be able to enjoy the holy privilege 
of conducting their feeble steps in peace and 
safety towards the close of their earthly pil- 
grimage. 


CHAPTER X. 


DOMESTIC HABITS,—CONSIDERATION AND KIND- 
NESS. 


Tuat branch of the subject upon which I 
am now entering being one of so much im- 
portance in the sum of human happiness as 
scarcely to admit of comparison with any 
other, it might be expected that I should es- 
pecially direct the attention of the reader to 
the duties of consideration and kindness in 
the married state, by entering into the minu- 
tie of its especial requirements, and recom- 
mending them with all the earnestness of 
emphatic detail, to the serious consideration 
of the women of England. Happy indeed 
should I be to do this, did I not feel that, at 
the same time, I should be touching upon a 
theme too delicate for the handling of an or- 
dinary pen, and venturing beyond that veil 
which the sacredness of such a connection 
is calculated to draw over all that is ex- 
treme in the happiness or misery of human 
life. / 

I shall therefore glance only upon those 
points which are most obvious to the eye of 
a third party ;-and in doing this, it will be 
found, that many of the remarks I have 
made upon the behavior of daughters to 
their fathers, are equally applicable to that of 
wives towards their husbands. There is, 
however, this great difference—the connec- 
tion existing between married people is al- 
most invariably a matter of choice. A daugh- 
| ter may, sometimes, imagine herself excused, 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


She may think his manners vulgar, and be- 
lieve that if she had a father who was a gen- 
tleman, she would be more attentive and 
considerate to him. But her husband cannot 
have married her without her own consent ; 
and therefore the engagement she has volun- 
tarily entered into, must be to fulfil the duties 
of a wife to him as he is, and not as she 
could have wished or imagined him to be. 

These considerations lead me to a view of 
the subject which I have often been com-. 
pelled to take with deep regret, but which J 
fear no human pen, and still less mine, will 
be able to change: it is the false system of 
behavior kept up between those who are 
about to enter into the relation of marriage ; 
so that when they settle down upon the true 
basis of their own characters, and appear to || 
each other what they actually are, the differ- I} 
ence is sometimes so great, as almost to justi- 
fy the inquiry whether the individual can re- 
ally be the same. 

I presume not to expatiate upon that pro- | 
cess denominated courtship, as it is frequent- || 
ly carried on by men. I venture not to ac- 
cuse. them of injustice, in cherishing, in their 
early intercourse with the object of their 
choice, the very faults which they afterwards 
complain of in the wife. My chief solicitude 
is for my own sex, that they should not only 
be faithful after marriage, but upright and 
sincere before ; and that they should scorn 
to engage a lover, by little acts of considera- 
tion and kindness which they are not pre- 
pared to practise even more willingly to- 
wards the husband. 

I have known cases in which a kind- 
hearted woman would have esteemed her- 
self robbed of a privilege, if her lover had 
asked any other person than herself, so much 
as to mend his glove. Yet is it not possible 
for the same woman, two years after mar- 
riage, to say— My sister, or my cousin, will 
do that for you. I am too busy now.” 

Nor is it the act alone, but the manner in 
which the act is done, that conveys a false 


{| by supposing that her father is too uncon- 
|| genial in mind and character, for her to owe 


| him much in the way of companionship. 


impression of what will be the manner of 
that woman after marriage. 
with intentional deception. 


I charge no one 
The very ex- 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


pression of the countenance is that of real 
and intense enjoyment, while the act of kind- 
ness is performed. All I regret is, that the 
same expressions of countenance should not 
always accompany the same performance in 
the wife. All women of acute sensibility 
must feel the loss of personal attractions, 
when time begins to tell upon their youthful 
charms. But, oh! that they would learn by 
the warning of others, rather than by their 
own experience, that it is most frequently the 
want of this expression of cheerful, genuine, 
disinterested kindness, than the want of 
youthful beauty, that alienates their hus- 
bands’ love, and makes them objects of in- 
difference, or worse. 

The cultivation of acquaintance before 
marriage, with a view to that connection 


| taking place, for the most part goes but a 


very little way towards the knowledge of 

| real character. The parties usually meet 
in the hey-day of inexpérienced youth; and 
while they exult in the unclouded sunshine 
of life, their mutual endeavors to please 
are rewarded by an equal willingness to be 
pleased. The woman, especially, is placed 
in a situation highly calculated to excite the 
greatest possible degree of complacency. She 
is treated by a being upon whom she depends, 
and he most probably her superior, as if she 
was incapable of error, and guiltless of a 
single fault. Perhaps she warns him of his 
mistake, speaks of her own defects, and as- 
sures him that she is not the angelic creature 
he supposes her to be; but she does all this 
with so sweet a grace, and looks all the while 
so pleased to be contradicted, that her infor- 
mation goes for nothing ; and we are by no 
means assured that she is not better satsified 
it should be so. 

If, for instance, she really wishes him to 
know that her temper is naturally bad, why is 
she invariably so mild, and bland, and con- 
ciliating in his presence? Ifshe wishes him 
to believe that she has a mind not capable of 
entering fully into the interest of his favorite 
books, and the subjects of his favorite dis- 
course, why does she appear to listen so at- 
tentively when he reads, and ask so many 


SS 


ee 


81 


questions calculated to draw him out into 
conversation? I?fshe wishes him to suppose 
that she is not always a lively and agreeable 
companion, why does she not occasionally 
assume the tone and manner so familiar to 
her family at home—answer him shortly, 
hang down her head, and mope away the 
evening when he is near her? If she really 
wishes him to believe her, when she tells him 
that she is but ill-informed, and wanting in 
judgment; why, when he talks with her, 
does she take so much pains to express opin- 
ions generally believed to be correct, and 
especially such as coincide with his own? 
If she occasionally acts from caprice, and 
really wishes him to know that she does so, 
to the injury of the comfort of those around 
her; why, whenever she practises in this 
way upon him, does she win him back again, 
and soothe his feelings with redoubled kind- 
ness, and additional solicitude to please ? 

Perhaps she will tell me she acts in this 
manner, because it would be unamiable and 
ungenerous to do otherwise. ‘To which I 
answer, If it be unamiable and ungenerous 
to the lover, how much more so must it be to 
the husband? I find no fault with the sweet- 
ness, the irresistible charm of her behavior 
before marriage. It is no more than we 
ought to practise towards those whose hap- 
piness is bound up with ours. The falling 
off afterwards, is what I regard as so much 
to be deplored in the character of woman; 
for wherever this is observed, it seems to indi- 
cate that her mind has been low enough to 
be influenced by a desire of establishing her- 
self in an eligible home, and escaping the 
stigma foolishly attached to the situation of 
an old maid. 

I have devoted an earlier chapter in this 
work to the consideration of dress and man- 
ners; but I have omitted one of the most 
striking points of view in which these sub- 
jects can be regarded,—the different charac- 
ters they sometimes assume before, and after, 
marriage. 

When a young lady dresses with a view 
to general approbation, she is studiously so- 
licitous to observe, what she believes to be, 


' 


Se ee ee 


82 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


values, evinces any decided symptoms of 
| becoming her admirer. She then meets him 
with her hair arranged in the most becoming 
style; with the neat shoe, and pure-white 
gloves, which she has heard him commend 
in others; with the pale scarf, the quiet-color- 
ed robe, and with the general aspect of her 
costume accommodated to his taste. 
not but observe this regard to his wishes, 
and he notes it down as a proof of amiable 
temperament, as well as sympathy of ha- 
bitual feeling. Auguring well for his future 
happiness with a woman, who even in mat- 
ters of such trifling moment is willing to 
make his wish her law, he prevails upon her 
at last to crown that happiness by the be- 
stowment of her hand. 

In the course of three years, we look in 
upon this couple in the home they are shar- 
ing together. We suppose the lady to be 
the same, yet cannot feel quite sure, her 
whole appearance is so changed. The hair 
that used to be so carefully braided, or so 
gracefully curled, is now allowed to wander 
in dishevelled tresses, or swept away from 
a brow, whose defects it was wont to cover. 
There is a forlornness in her whole appear- 
ance, as if she had not, as formerly, any 
worthy object for which to study these sec- 
ondary points of beauty; and we inwardly 
exclaim, How the taste of her husband must 
have changed, to allow him to be pleased 
with what is so entirely the opposite of his 
original choice! On a second observation, 
however, we ask whether he actually is 
pleased, for there is nothing like satisfaction 
in the look with which he turns away from 
| the unbecoming cap, the soiled kerchief, and 
the neglected aspect of the partner of his 
life. 

If married women, 4) allow themselves 
to fall into that State of moral degradation, 
which ‘such an appearance indicates, feel 
pained at symptoms of estrangement in their 
husbands’ affections, they must at least be 
satisfied to endure the consequences of their 
| own want of consideration, without sympa- 


| the rules of good taste ; and more especially, 
| ifa gentleman, whose favorable opinion she 


He can- | 


thy or commiseration. They may, perhaps, 
feel disposed to say their punishment is too 
severe for such a fault. They love their 
husbands as faithfully as ever, and expected 
from them a love that would have been more 
faithful in return, than to be shaken by any 
change in mere personal appearance. But 
let me tell them, that the change which owes 
its existence to our own fault, has a totally || 
different effect upon the feelings of a friend, 
from that which is the consequence of our 
misfortune ; and one of the most bitter and 
repulsive thoughts that can be made to rankle 
in a husband’s bosom, is, that his wife should 
only have deemed it necessary to charm his 
eye, until she had obtained his hand; and 
that, through the whole of his after life he 
must look in vain for the exercise of that 
kind consideration in consulting his tastes 
and wishes, that used to lend so sweet a 
charm to the season of youthful intercourse. 

It is a subject well calculated to inspire the 
most serious regret, that men should practise 
throughout the season of courtship, that sys- 
tem of indiscriminate flattery which lulls the 
better judgment of a woman into a belief 
that she must of necessity be delightful to 
him—delightful, faults and all—nay, what is 
infinitely worse than this, into a secret suspi- 
cion, that the faults which her female friends 
have been accustomed to point out, have no 
existence in reality, and that to one who 
knows and loves her better, she must appear 
in her naturally amiable and attractive char- 
acter. 

Could she be persuaded, on that import- || 
ant. day, when she is led home from tie |} 
altar, adorned, attended upon, and almost lg 
worshipped—could she be persuaded to cast |} 
one impartial glance into her own heart, she 
would see that the treasure she was bestow-_ 
ing, had many drawbacks from its value, 
and that all the happiness it was in her pow- 
er to confer, must necessarily, from the 
nature of that heart, be pea peracied with 
some alloy. 

“ Alas!’ she would say, after this exami- 
nation, “he knows me not. Time will reveal 
to him my secretly cherished faults.” And | 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


when this conviction was confirmed through 
the days and years of her after life, she 
would esteem it but a small sacrifice of time 
and patience to endeavor to render herself 
personally attractive to him. Nay, so grate- 
ful would she feel for his charitable forgive- 
ness, that when the evil dispositions inherent 
in her nature were thrown into more glaring 
light, she would esteem it a privilege to be 
able by the simplest means to convince him, 
that, with all her faults, she was not so guilty 
of a disregard to his wishes, as to refuse in 
these minor points to conform her habits to 
his taste. 

Many of the remarks into which I have 
been led by a consideration of the subject of 
dress, are equally applicable to that of man- 
ner, as relates to its connection with social 


and domestic happiness before and after 


marriage. We are all aware that neither 
beauty, nor personal adornment, nor the 
most brilliant conversation, can be rendered 
| altogether charming to any individual, with- 
out the accompaniment of a peculiar kind of 
{| manner, by which that individual is made to 
| feel that he partakes in the pleasant thoughts 
| and kind feelings of the party whose object 
it is to please. 

Women who possess the tact to know ex- 
actly how to give pleasure, are peculiarly 
skilled in those earnest Jooks, and cheerful 
smiles, and animated responses, which con- 
stitute more than half the charm of society. 
We sometimes see, in social evening circles, 
the countenance of an intelligent young lady 
lighted up with such a look of deep and 
glowing interest as to render her perfectly 
beautiful, during the time she is addressed 
by a distinguished friend, or even an attract- 
ive stranger. 

I will not say that the same expression is 
not always worn by the same individual at 
the domestic hearth, when she listens to the 
conversation of her husband. I will not so 
far libel my countrywomen, because I know 
that there are noble and admirable instances 
of women who are too diffident and too 

simple-hearted to study how to shine in 
| public, who yet, from the intensity of their 


83 


own feelings, the brilliance of their own 
powers of perception, and the deep delight 
of listening to the gentle tones of a beloved 
voice, when it speaks at once to their under- 
standing and their hearts,—I know that such 
women do wear an aspect of almost spiritual 
beauty, and speak and act with an almost 
superhuman grace, when no eye beholds 
them but that which is most familiar, and 
which is destined to look upon the same 
path of life with theirs. 

After acknowledging these instances, I 
must suppose a case; and for the sake of 
argument imagine what would be the feel- 
ings of a husband, who, in mixed society, 
should see his wife the centre of an anima- 
ted group—pleased herself, and giving pleas- 
ure to all around her—the expression of 
intense interest depicted on her countenance, 
and mingled with an apprehension so lively 
and vivid, as almost to amount to presenti- 
ment of every probable turn in the dis- 
course ; her eyes lighted up with animation, 


and her cheeks dimpled over with the play | 


of sunny smiles—what would be the feelings || ° 


of a husband who should have marked all 
this, and when at his own fireside he felt 
the want of pleasant converse to beguile the 
winter’s evening of its length, should be an- 
swered by that peculiar tone of voice, that 
depression of countenance, and that forbid- 
ding manner, Which are more powerful in 
imposing silence than the most imperative 
command ? 

In fact, there is a manner all-powerful in 
its influence upon domestic happiness, in 
which there seems to be imbodied a spirit of 
evil too subtile for detection, and too indefi- 
nite to be described by any name. It is not 
precisely a sullen manner, nor, in its strictest 
sense, a repulsive manner ; for the individu- 
al who adopts it may be perfectly civil all 
the while. It does not consist in pointed 
insult, or, indeed, in any thing pointed. It 
conveys no reproach, nor suffers the party 
upon whom it operates to suppose that re- 
dress is the thing desired. It invites no 
explanation, and makes no complaint. Its 
only visible characteristic is, that the eye is 


| 84 


never raised to gaze upon its object, but in- 
variably directed past it, as if that object had 
no ubiquity—in short, had no existence, and 
was not required to have any. 

This is the manner I should describe as 
most expressive of natural antipathy without 
the energy of active dislike; and yet this 
manner, as before stated, is so potent in its 
influence, that it seems to lay, as it were, an 
unseen axe at the root of all domestic confi- 
dence; and difficult as it must necessarily 
be, for a woman to maintain this manner, 
there have been instances in which it has 
destroyed a husband’s peace, without afford- 
ing him even the satisfaction of any definite 
cause of complaint. There are degrees of 
the same manner practised every day in all 
classes of society, but never without a bane- 
ful effect, in poisoning our kindly feelings, 
| and decreasing the sum of human happi- 
NESS. 

We are all too much disposed to put on 
what I would describe as company manners. 
Not only are our best dresses reserved for our 
visitors, but our best behavior too. I have 
often been struck with the bland smiles that 
have been put on in welcoming guests, and 
the appearance of extreme interest with 
which such guests have been listened to; 
when, five minutes after their departure, the 
same subject, having been taken up by some 
unfortunate member of the family, no inter- 
est whatever has been elicited, no smile 
awakened, and scarcely so much as a pa- 
tient and respectful answer drawn forth. I 
have observed, also, with what forbearance 
the absurdities of a stranger have been en- 
dured: the twice-told tale, when begun again 
in company, has apparently been as fresh 
and entertaining as the first time it was 
heard. The folly of ignorance has then had 
no power to disgust, nor the impertinence of 
curiosity to offend. 

When I have marked all this, I have 
thought, If we could but carry away our 
company-smiles, to the home fireside, speak 
always in the gentle and persuasive tones 
made use of in the evening party, and move 
along the domestic walk with that suavity of 


——. 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


manner which characterizes our intercourse 
with what is called society,—how pleasant 
would those homes become to the friends 
who look for their hours of refreshment and 
relaxation there; and how seldom should 
we have to complain of our companionship 
being neglected for that of more brilliant cir- 
cles and more interesting scenes ! 

In writing on the subject of consideration 
and kindness before and after marriage, I 
purposely confined my remarks to a very 
slight and superficial view of the subject. 
The world that lies beyond, I cannot regard 
as within the province of my pen—I might 
almost say, within the province of any pen: 
for such is the difference in human character, 
and in the circumstances by which character 
is developed, that it would scarcely be possi- 
ble to speak definitely of a line of conduct by 
which the lives of any two married women 
could properly be regulated, because such 
conduct must bear strict reference to the 
habits and temperament of the husband, 
whose peculiarities of character would have 
to be taken into account. 

I must therefore be satisfied to recommend 
this wide and important field of contempia- 
tion to the serious attention and earnest soli- 
citude of my country women; reminding them, 
only, before we leave this subject, that if, in 
the first instance, they are induced by selfish 
feeling to consult their immediate interest or 
convenience, they are, in a secondary man- 
ner, undermining their own happiness by fail- 
ing to consult that of the being whose destiny 
is linked with theirs. 

What pen can describe the wretchedness 
of that woman, who finds herself doomed to 
live unloved ; and to whom can she look for 
confidence and affection, if shut out from the 
natural sources of enjoyment at home ?— 
There is no loneliness—there can be ncne-— 
in all the waste or peopled deserts of this 
world, bearing the slightest comparison with 
that of an unloved wife. She stands amidst 
her family like a living statue among the 
marble memorials of the dead—instinct with 
life, yet paralyzed with death—the burning 
tide of natural feeling circling round her 


SST 
—<—— a eS 


heart—the thousand channels frozen, through 
| which that feeling ought to flow. 
| So pitiable, so utterly destitute of consola- 
| tion is this state, to which many women have 
| reduced themselves by mere carelessness of 
the common and familiar means of giving 
pleasure, that I must be pardoned for writing 
| on this subject with more earnestness than 
| the minuteness of its detail would seem to 
warrant. We may set off in life with high 
notions of loving, and of being loved, in exact 
proportion to meritorious desert, as exempli- 
fied in great and noble deeds. But on a 
; closer and more experimental view of human 
| life, we find that affection is more dependent 
upon the minutie of every-day existence ; 
| and that there is a greater sum of affection 
really lost by filtering away through the fail- 
ure of seeming trifles, than by the shock of 
|; great events. 
| We are apt also to deceive ourselves with 
| regard to the revival of affection after its de- 
| cay. Much may be done to restore equanim- 
| ity of mind, to obtain forgiveness, and to be 
| reinstated in esteem; but I am inclined to 
think, that when once the bloom of love is 
gone—when it has been brushed away by too 
} rude or too careless a hand, it would be as 
vain to attempt to restore it, as to raise again 
| the blighted flower, or give wings to the but- 
| terfly which the storm had beaten down. 
How important is it, then, that women 
| should guard, with the most scrupulous at- 
| tention, this treasure of their hearts,—this 
blessing of their homes; and since we are so 
| constituted, that trifles make the sum of hu- 
man happiness, that they should lose no op- 
portunity of turning these trifles to the best 
account ! 

Besides these considerations, there is one 
awful and alarming fact connected with this 
subject, which ought to be indelibly impress- 
ed upon our minds; it is, that we have but 
a short time, it may be but a very short time, 
allowed us for promoting the comfort or the 
|| happiness of our fellow-creatures. Even if 
|| we ourselves are spared to reach the widest 
range of human existence, how few of those 
we love will number half that length of years ! 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 85 


upon to share the burdens of a weary bosom, 


~ 


Even the hand that is clasped in ours, the 
eyes that reflect the intelligence of our souls, 
and the heart that beats an echo to every 
pulse we feel, may be cold and motionless 
before to-morrow’s sun has.set! 

Were the secrets of every human bosom 
laid open, I believe we should behold no 
darker passage in the page of experience, 
than that which has noted down our want 
of kindness and consideration to those who 
are gone before us to another world. 

When we realize the agonizing sensation 
of bending over the feeble frame of a beloved 
friend, when the mortal conflict is approach- 
ing, and the fluttering spirit is about to leave 
its earthly tenement; and looking back upon 
a long, dark past, all blotted over with in- 
stances of our unkindness or neglect, and 
forward unto that little span of life, into which 
we would fain concentrate the deep affection, 
that, in spite of inconsistencies in our past 
conduct, has all the while been cherished in 
our hearts,—with what impassioned earnest- 
ness would we arrest the pale messenger in 
his career, and stay the wings of time, and 
call upon the impatient spirit to return, to 
see, and feel, and understand our love! 

Perhaps we have been negligent in former 
seasons of bodily affliction ; have not listened 
patiently to the outpouring of natural feel- 
ing, and have held ourselves excused from 
attendance in the sick-chamber; and there 
has gone forth that awful sentence, “It is the 
last time !’”-—the last time we can offer the 
cordial draught, or smooth the restless pillow, 
or bathe the feverish brow ! And now, though 
we would search all the treasures of the earth 
for healing medicine, and rob ourselves of 
sleep, and rest, and sustenance, to purchase 
for the sufferer one hour of quiet slumber, 
and pour out tears upon that aching brow, 
until its burning heat was quenched ;—it is 
in vain, for the eye is glazed, the lips are 
paralyzed, the head begins to droop, and ex- 
piring nature tells us it is all too late! 

Perhaps we have not been sympathizing, 
kind, or tender, in those by-gone years of 
familiar confidence, when we were called 


86 


A 


whose inner feelings were revealed to us, and 

{ us alone. Yes, we can remember, in the sun- 
ny days of youth, and through the trials of 
maturer life, when the appeals of affection 
were answered with fretfulness or captious 
spleen, when estrangement followed, and we 
could not, if we had desired it, then draw 
back the love we had repulsed. And now 
we hear again that awful sentence—‘It is the 
last time !’”’—the last time we can ever weep 
upon that bosom, or lay our hand upon that 
head, or press a fond, fond kiss upon those 
closing lips. Fain would we then throw open 
the floodgates of our hidden feeling, and pour 
forth words of more than tenderness. Alas! 
the once wished-for tide would flow, like the 
rising surf around a shattered wreck—top 
late! 

Perhaps we have been guilty of a deeper 
sin against our heavenly Father, and the hu- 
man family whose happiness he has in some 
measure committed to our trust. And, oh! 

let the young ask diligently of the more ex- 
| periehced, how they can escape the aching 
| consciousness that may pursue them to the 
grave, and only then commence the reality 
of its eternal torment—the consciousness of 
having wasted all our influence, and neglect- 
ed all our means of assisting those who were 
associated with us by the closest ties, in pre- 
paring for another and a better world. 
Perhaps they once sought our society for 
|| the benefit of spiritual communion. Perhaps 
|| they would have consulted us in cases of 
moral difficulty, had we been more gracious 
and conciliating. Perhaps we have treated 
lightly the serious scruples they have laid be- 
fore us, or, what is still more probable, per- 
haps the whole tenor of our inconsistent lives 
has been the means of drawing them away 
from the altar, on which they saw such un- 
holy incense burning. And now, “it is the 
last time !”—the last time we can ever speak 
to them of eternity, of the state of their trem- 
bling souls before the eye of a just and holy 
God, or raise their fainting hopes to the 
| mercy still offered to their acceptance, through 
Him who is able to save to the uttermost. 
Oh! for the trumpet of an archangel, to 


DOMESTIC HABITS OF 


awake them from the increasing torpor of 
bodily and spiritual death! Oh! for a voice 
that would imbody, in one deep, awful, and 
tremendous word, all—all for which our 
wasted life was insufficient! It is in vain 
that we would call upon the attributes of na- 
ture and of Deity to aid us. They are gone! 
It was the final struggle; and never more 
will that pale marble form be roused to life | 
by words of hope or consolation. ‘They are 
gone. The portals of eternity are closed—It 
as too late! 

Let it be a subject of grateful acknowledg- 
ment with the young, that to them this fear- 
ful sentence has not yet gone forth—that op- 
portunity may still be offered them to redeem 
the time. They know not, however, how | 
much of this time remains at their disposal ; 
and it might occasionally be some assistance || 
to them in their duties, would they cultivate | 
the habit of thinking, not only of their own | 
death, but of the death of their companions. 

There are few subjects more calculated for | 
solemn and affecting thought, than the fact | 
that we can scarcely meet a blooming circle 
around a cheerful hearth, but one individual 
at least, in that circle, will be cherishing in 
her bosom the seeds of some fatal malady. 

It is recorded of the Egyptians, that among 
their ancient customs they endeavored to | 
preserve the salutary remembrance that they 
were liable to death, by placing at their festal 
boards, a human skeleton; so that while 
they feasted, and enjoyed the luxuries of this | 
life, they should find it impossible to beguile 
themselves into a belief in its perpetual dura- | 
tion. | 

It is not necessary that we should resort 
to means so unnatural and repulsive ; though 
the end is still more desirable for us, who are 
trusting in a better hope, to keep in view. 
Neither is it necessary that the idea should 
be invested with melancholy, and associated 
with depression. It is but looking at the 
truth. And let us deceive ourselves as we 
may, the green church-yard with its freshly 
covered graves—the passing-bell—the slowly- 
moving hearse—the shutters closed upon the 
apartment where the sound of merriment 


| was lately heard—the visitations of disease 
| within our homes—even the hectic flush of 
| beauty—all remind us that the portion of time 
| allotted for the exercise of kindly feeling to- 
|| wards our fellow-creatures, is fleeting fast 
| away; and that to-day, if ever, we must 
| prove to the great Shepherd of the Chris- 
| tian fold, that we are not regardless of that 
| memorable injunction—By this shall all men 
| know that ye are my disciples, If ye have love 
one to another. 


CHAPTER XI. 


SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE WOMEN OF ENG- 
LAND—CAPRICE—-AFFECTATION—-LOVE OF AD- 
MIRATION. 


Tae higher admiration we bestow upon 
the nature and attributes of any subject of 
contemplation, the more painful and acute is 
our perception of its defects. And thus 
when we think of woman in her most eleva- 
ted character, consider the extent of her ca- 
pabilities, and her wonderful and almost un- 
failing power of being great on great occa- 
; sions, we are the more disposed to regret 
that she has a power equally unlimited, of 
making herself little; and that, when indo- 
lence or selfishness is allowed to prevail over 
her better feelings, this power is often exer- 
cised to the annoyance of society, and to her 
own disgrace. 

Those who understand the construction 
of wonian’s mind, however, will find some 
excuse for this, in the natural versatility of 
her mental faculties, in the multiplicity of her 
floating ideas, in the play of her fancy, and 
in the constant overflow of her feelings, 
which must expend themselves upon some 
object, either worthy or unworthy; and 
which censequently demand the utmost at- 
tention to what is really important, in order 
that this waste of energy, of feeling, and 
emotion, may be avoided. 

The word caprice, in: its familiar accepta- 
tion, is one of very indefinite signification. I 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


87 


shall endeavor to confine my use of it to 
those cases in which the whim of the mo- 
ment is made the rule of action, without any 
reference to right reason, or even to the 
gratification or annoyance of others; and I 
shall endeavor to show, that with regard to 
this feminine fault, as well as many others, 
women are not fairly dealt with by society. 

How often do we see, for instance, a beau- 
tiful and fascinating girl expressing the most 
absurd antipathies, or sympathies, and acting 
in the most self-willed'and irrational manner ; 
in short, performing a part, which, in a plain 
woman, would be regarded not only as repul- 
sive, but unamiable in the utmost degree! 
yet because she is beautiful, her admirers ap- 
pear to think all these little freaks of fancy 
highly becoming, and captivating in the ex- 
treme. If she chooses to find. fault with 
what all the rest of the company are admir- 
ing—how delightfully peculiar are her tastes ! 
If she will walk out when others are not dis- 
posed for walking—what obsequious attend- 
ants she immediately finds, all ready to say 
the evening is fine, the air inviting, and the 
general aspect of nature exactly what she 
chooses it should be! If she persists in re- 
fusing to play a favorite air—what a dear ca- 
pricious creature she always is! and inthis, 
as well as other whims, she must be humor- 
ed to the extent of her selfishness. 

I will not pretend to say that beauty alone 
can command this influence, though it un- 
questionably has a power beyond all calcula- 
tion. The being who thus assumes the right 
to tyrannize, must have obtained the suffrages 
of society by the exercise of some particular 
powers of fascination, which she wants the 
judgment and good feeling to use for better 
purposes. 

We have seen her, then, a sort of idol in 
society, the centre of an admiring circle, en- 
dowed with the royal privilege of incapability 
of doing wrong. We have seen her admired, 
apparently beloved ; and we turn to the little 
coteries of dissentients who are sure to be 
formed in all companies where a being of this 
description is found. Among these we find 
that her character is treated, not with justice, 


a 


I 
SS 


88 


though that had been enough, but with the 
sharp inspection of keen and envious eyes ; 
and we are soon convinced, that if in public 
she is raised to the distinction of an idol, she 
isin private most unscrupulously deprived of 
the honors she was but too willing to assume. 

I speak not of this instance, in order to 
bring forward the want of charity and kindly 
feeling prevailing in the world. I simply 
state that such things are,—in order to show 
that the deference paid to the caprices of 
women by a few partial admirers, is no real 
test of the favor they obtain in general so- 
ciety. And if, in such instances where youth 
and beauty cast their lovely mantle over 
every defect, woman’s faults are still brought 
to light, what must be her situation—what 
her treatment by the world, where she has 
nothing of this kind to palliate her weakness, 
or recommend her to the charity and forbear- 
ance of her fellow-creatures ? 

Caprice, like many other feminine faults, 
appears almost too trifling in its minutie— 
too insignificant in its detail, to deserve our 
serious condemnation; yet, if caprice has 
the power to make enemies, and to destroy 
happiness, it ought not to be regarded as un- 
important in itself. With regard to many 
other subjects of consideration connected 
with the virtues or the érrors of woman, we 
have had to observe, that each individual act 
| may be almost beneath our notice in itself, 
and yet may form a part of such a whole, as 
the utmost capabilities of human intellect 
would be unable to treat with justice and ef- 
fect. 

The case is precisely the same with femi- 
nine caprice. It is but a slight deviation 
either from sense or propriety, to choose to 
differ from the majority of opinions, to choose 
to do, and to make others do, what is not 
agreeable to them, or to refuse to do what 
would give them pleasure. But, when this 
mode of conduct becomes habitual, when 
beauty fades, and the idol of society is cast 
into the shade, when disappointment irritates 
the temper, and “sickness rends the brow,” 
and grief sits heavily upon the soul—in these 
seasons of nature’s weakness, when woman’s 


the dignity of moral duty. 


SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF 


trembling heart is apt to sink within her, to 


what loneliness and bitterness of experience 
must she be consigned, if her own indulgence 
of caprice has driven from her all the friends 
who might have administered to her conso- 
lation in this hour of need ! 

This view of the subject, however, she is 
certainly at liberty to take, and counting the 
cost, to indulge her momentary wishes at the 
expense of her future peace. The question 
of most serious importance; is, how far we 


are justified in trifling with the happiness, |} 
the comfort, or even the convenience of others, | 


for the sake of indulging our own caprices? 


I have before stated, that in acting from |}. 


caprice, we act without reference to common 
sense, or right feeling. 


If, therefore, a wo- | 


man chooses to be capricious, there is no help } 


for it. Argument has no power to convince 
her that she is wrong, and opposition only 
strengthens her determination: no matter 
how many are made to suffer annoyance 
from her folly, or grief from her perverse- 
ness. It is her choice to be capricious, and 


they must abide by the consequences. Thus. 


she exemplifies—it may be said in actions 
extremely minute and unimportant—but still 
she does exemplify, how much mischief may 


be done by a weak judgment, a selfish tem- |} 


per, and an unenlightened mind. 

The domestic habits and social intercourse 
of the women of England, are peculiarly 
favorable to the counteraction of the natural 
tendency to caprice in the female character, 
because they afford a supply of constant oc- 
cupation, and invest that occupation with 
When, therefore, 
we find individuals acting from caprice, in 
the middle classes of English society, we 
know that it exists in spite of circumstances; 
and we consequently regard with proportion- 
ate condemnation, those who are so far defi- 
cient in good taste and good feeling, as to 
prefer such a mode of exhibiting their follies 
to the world. 


It might require some degree of philoso- 
phical examination, accurately to define the 
nature and origin of caprice; yet so far as 
I have been able to ascertain by observations 


ee ldicrentesg 


2 
oe meet 


fe 


—s } 


a/ 


AMI TA 


L. 


Ci 


S oh ST hee AA 


d 
rd 
a 
=) 


Tisher- Son. 


wie 


1 of that which is assumed. 
| it is often the accompaniment of extreme 
| bashfulness and diffidence of self; but this 


upon society in general, I should be inclined 
to describe it as arising from the same cause 
as affectation ; and both to owe their exist- 
ence to a desire to attract attention, or a belief 
that attention is attracted by what is said or 
done. Caprice refers more to a weak and 
vain desire to be important; affectation, to a 
desire to make ourselves admired. Both are 
contemptible in the extreme. Yet one is so 
powerful in provoking the temper, the other 
in exciting ridicule and disgust, that both are 
worthy of our careful examination, in order 


| that we may detect the lurking evil wherever 
| it exists in our own conduct. 


Affectation is in practice a species of mi- 
nute deception ; in effect, ap alpable mockery 
Iam aware that 


is seldom or never the case, except where 


| there is a secret, yet strong desire, if it were 
! possible, to be the object of admiration to 
|| others. 
| erally a prevailing impression of being the 


Along with affectation, there is gen- 


object upon which all, or at least many, eyes 


| are fixed. For who would be at the trouble 
| of all those distortions of countenance, in- 


flexions of voice, and manceuvrings of body 


| and limb, which we often observe in compa- 


ny, did they not believe themselves to be 
“The observed of all observers ?”’ 


If by thinking too meanly of ourselves, we 
are overwhelmed with humiliation in public, 
and tormented with dissatisfaction in private, 
it is clear that there is as much vanity and 
selfishness\in this depreciation of our own 
character, as in the more exalted and com- 
fortable inflation of conceit. The only differ- 
ence is,—in one case we are piqued and 
wounded that we cannot be admired; in the 
other, we believe ourselves to be admired 
when we are not. 

The suffering produced by this kind of 
vanity, is generally accompanied both with 
affectation and bashfulness; but we must 
not suppose, because a blush suffuses the 
countenance, and the outstretched hand is 
seen to tremble, that the individual who is 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


| 


} 


guilty of this breach of fashionable indiffer- 
ence, is necessarily free from vanity, or guilt- 
less of a desire to be admired. 

Those who have travelled much, and seen 
much of the world, are generally cured both 
of bashfulness and affectation, by one of these 
two causes,—either they have been so often 
in company without making any impression, 
that they have learned of how little import- 
ance it is to society in what manner they be- 
have, or how they look ; or they have learn- 
ed a still more useful lesson, that the admira- 
tion of man, even in its fullest sense, goes 
but a little way towards satisfying the heart. 

The affectation most frequently detected 
in the behavior of women, is that which 
arises from an inordinate desire of being 
agreeable. A certain degree of this desire is, 
unquestionably, of great service in preserving 
them from the moral degradation which I 
have before alluded to, as attaching to per- 
sonal neglect—as indicating a low state of 
mind wherever it exists, and procuring a low 
degree of estimation for the individual who 
thus allows her negligence to gain the ascen- 
dancy over her good taste. 

On the other hand, what may with pro- 
priety be called an inordinate desire to be 
admired, when it takes the place of higher 
motives and principles of action, is, perhaps, 
a more fertile source both of folly and of suf- 
fering than any other which operates upon | 
the life and conduct of woman. As exhibit- 
ed through the single medium of affectation, 
it is so varied in its character, and so un- 
bounded in its sphere of operation, that to 
attempt to describe it in detail would require 
volumes, rather than pages; I shall therefore 
confine my remarks to that specivis of affecta- 
tion which is the most prevalent in the pres- 
ent day. 

As the peculiar kind of merit assumed by 
the hypocrite is, in some measure, a test of 
what is most popular and most approved in 
society, so the prevailing affectation of the 
day is an indication of the taste of the times 
—of the general tone of public feeling, and 
of the tendency of private habits. That 
which most recommends itself to the accept- 


SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF 


Sc kes hfe ea ec inp AE TO ATES ON TS Tg eT et nee ee NIE iT ie A EL cE eee, 


ance and adoption of the young ladies of 
the present day, is an affectation of refine- 
ment—not refinement of feeling as relates to 
the means possessed by every human being, 
of increasing pleasure and alleviating pain, 
in the circle of friends or relatives by which 
they are surrounded ; but refinement of self, 
so that the individual who has attained to 
this degree of elevation shall be exempt from 
all personal obligations, particularly such as 
would render her instrumental in the perform- 
ance of social and domestic services among 
her fellow-creatures. Women who affect 
this kind of refinement, are extremely fas- 
tidious in all that relates to manual employ- 
ment. They cannot touch the coarse material 
that supplies our bodily wants, or constitutes 
our personal comfort. They loathe the very 
mention of those culinary compounds, which, 
nevertheless, their fair lips condescend to 
admit ; and they shrink with horror from the 
vulgar notion that the old grandmother-du- 
ties of preparing a clean hearth, and a com- 
fortable fireside, for a husband or a brother, 
could by any possibility devolve upon them. 

For this kind of affectation, however, there 
is some excuse in our natural indolence ; and 
in the exemption it procures from personal 
exertion; but when we see the absolute pains 
which some of the same individuals will take 
to make themselves appear dependent, use- 
less, and wholly inadequate to self-preserva- 
tion, we are startled with a new idea, and 
entirely at a loss to account for this pheno- 
menon in human nature. 

It is with difficulty I admit the belief that 
women are in reality the victims of all those 
foolish fears with which they profess to be 
annoyed, and with which they unquestion- 
ably are very successful in annoying others. 
It is with difficulty I admit this belief, because 
I see, and see with admiration, that some of 
the most delicate women, the most sensitively 
alive to impression, and the most susceptible 
both of pleasure and pain, can, when called 
upon by duty, and actuated by principle, set 
all these idle fears aside, and dare to do what 
man would almost shrink from. J cannot, 
therefore, divest myself of all suspicion, that 


EEE — ee 


a little of this feminine timidity is sometimes 
assumed, and a great deal of it encouraged, 
for the sake of effect—for the sake of making |}. 
it appear to society that the individual who |} 
acts this part is too refined to have ever been 
accustomed to the rough usages of common 
life. 

I say this with all charity, and with much 
compassion for those whose bodily and men- 
tal conformation does really render them the 
victims of causeless fear; and when we see 
such persons endeavoring to subdue their 
timidity, ashamed of it as a weakness, and 
especially solicitous for it not to interfere with 
the comfort or convenience of others, they {| 
justly claim, not only our sympathy, but our | 
admiration. It is the display of terror that I 
would speak of in terms which can scarcely 
be too contemptuous; the becoming start, 
the modulated shriek, the studied appeal for |{ 
manly protection, and all that elaboration of |{ 
feminine delicacy which it sometimes ap- | 
pears to be the business of a life to exhibit. 

Besides this kind of affectation, J will men- 
tion another species, if possible, still more } 
unnaccountable in its nature and cause. It 
is the affectation of ignorance respecting 
common things. It is by no means unusual 
with young ladies to appear to plume them- 
selves upon not knowing how any familiar 
or ordinary thing is made or done. They 
refuse to understand any thing about machi- |} 
nery, and bring into their conversation what 
they seem to regard as the most entertaining 
blunders, whenever conversation turns upon |} 
the occupations of the laboring classes. The || 
same individuals seldom know the way toany || 
place, are incapable of discovering whether 
their faces are turned to the north or the |} 
south; and if you ask them, with any idea |} 
of receiving an answer, from what quarter 
the wind is blowing, you might as well ex- 
pect them to tell you whether the tide is at 
that moment rising in Nootka Sound. 

If any of these confessions of ignorance, 
when forced upon them, were attended with 
embarrassment or shame, they would claim 
our sisterly compassion ; and sorry should I 


be to make their blushes the subject of public t 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


remark. But when we find this ignorance 
persisted in, made conspicuous on every pos- 
sible occasion, and attended with 


“* Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,” 


as if it were sure to meet with a favorable 
reception in society, we cannot withhold the 
exclamation of our patriot poet, that from our 
souls we “loathe all affectation.” 

It is evident that this helplessness, and this 
ignorance, where they are assumed, must be 


so for the purpose of attracting attention,. 


claiming assistance, it may be, from the other 
sex, and establishing an unquestionable claim 
to refinement, by giving forth to society an 
idea of habits of exclusion from all vulgar or 
degrading association. 

It is difficult to imagine a mode of life, or 
a combination of circumstances, less advan- 
tageous to the cultivation of such false no- 
tions of refinement, than those which are 
‘presented by the real situation of the women 
of England ; and it is impossible not to look, 
with gloomy anticipations for the future wel- 
fare of our country, upon the increasing 
prevalence of these erroneous ideas of what 
is really excellent and admirable in the female 

character. 
| The view we have taken of the subjects at 
present under consideration, naturally leads 
us to that great root of more than half the 
folly and the misery existing among women— 
the love of admiration. | 

The extreme case of a woman totally in- 
different to the good opinion of her fellow- 
creatures, would fail to recommend itself to 
our regard, inasmuch as it would argue a 
deficiency in her nature, of those feelings 
which have been given her as a means of 
happiness to herself and benefit to others. 
She would stand amid her fellow-creatures a 
lonely and isolated being, living and acting 
without reference to the existence of any 
other being ; and if she escaped the thousand 
disappointments of those who act from oppo- 
site motives, she would be equally exempt 
from any claim upon their affection. 

Such individuals, however, are so rare, that 
the consideration of their peculiarities would 


91 


be a fruitless waste of time and thought. 
tis to the opposite extreme of character that 
And here 
I would request the reader to bear In mind, 
that my remarks refer strictly to the love of 
admiration, not to the love of approbation, 
which I take to be a natural and lawful stim- 
ulus to all that is excellent iu female conduct. 

When we look upon human life with “ crit- 
ical inspection,” 


our attention must now be given. 


we find that a vast propor- 
tion of the apparent motives acted upon before 
the world, are not the rea] motives by which 
the individual actors are influenced; and 
that this system of deception is often carried 
on unconsciously to them, because they are 
themselves betrayed by the deceitfulness of 
their own hearts. In no instance is this more 
strikingly the case than in our love of admi- 
ration. ‘To gratify this desire, what suffering 
are we not willing to endure, what pains do 
we not take, what patience can we not exer- 
cise! and all under the most plausible pre- 
tences—pretences that impose upon others 
less effectually than ourselves, that we are 
acting upon higher and more praiseworthy 
principles. ‘There is this difference, however, 
to be observed between acting from worthy 
and unworthy motives: when our endeavors 
are unsuccessful and our motives correct, we 
seldom give way to the fretfulness of disap- 
pointment; but when our endeavors are in- 
effectual, and we look back into our own 
hearts, and find them unsupported by any 
laudable object, our fretfulness is often exas- 
perated into bitterness and spleen. 
Observation and experience have taught 
me to believe, that many of the secret sor- 
rows of woman’s life owe half their poign- 
ancy to the disappointment of not being able 
to obtain the degree of admiration which has 
been studiously sought. A popular and ele- 
gant writer has said— How offen dp the 
wounds of our vanity form the secret of our 
pathos!” And to the situation, and the feel- 
ings of woman, this observation is more espe- 
cially applicable. Still there is much to be 
said for woman in this respect. By the na- 
ture of her own feelings, as well as by the 
established rules of polished life, she is thrown, 


ee ee 


92 


as it were, upon the good-will of society. Un- 
able to assert her own claims to protection, 
she must endeavor to ensure it by secondary 
means, and she knows that the protection of 
man is best ensured by recommending her- 
\| self to his admiration. : ! 

Nor is this all. There is but a faint line 


of demarkation between admiration and love. 
Though essentially different in their nature, 
and not always called forth by the same indi- 
vidual, their outward aspect is still so much 
alike, and there is so frequent a transition 
made from the one to the other, that it re- 
quires more able reasoning than the general- 
ity of women are capable of, to know exactly 
when they are exciting admiration, and when 
they are inspiring love. There is, however, 
one infallible test by which the case may be 
decided, and I cannot too earnestly recom- 
1 mend to my countrywomen to apply it to 
| themselves. If they are admired without 
| being beloved, they may possibly be favorites 
| in company abroad, but they will be no favor- 
| ites at home—they may obtain the good-will 
|| of a mere acquaintance, but they will be 
solitary and neglected at their own fireside. 
If they are cultivating such habits as are 
calculated to make them really beloved, espe- 
cially at home, they may retire from company 
in which they have been wholly overlooked, 
‘to find the warmest welcome of the domestic 
circle awaiting their return—they may not be 
able to create any perceptible sensation when 
they appear in public, but every familiar 
countenance around their social hearth will 
be lighted up with smiles when they appear. 


With regard to the love of admiration, it | 


is much to be regretted that all women who 
make this one of the chief objects of their 
| lives, do not at the same time evince an 
equal solicitude to be admired for what is 
really praiseworthy. Were this the case, 
they would at least be employed in cultiva- 
ting useful habits; and as the student who 
aims at obtaining a prize, even if he fails in 
that direct object, has obtained what is more 
desirable, in the power of application which 
he has made himself master of; so the wo- 
man who aims at moral excellence, if the 


SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF 


~ art 
ee, | 


taste of society is too vitiated to receive with 
admiration the first inpression her character 
is calculated to make, has yet acquired such 
habits as will prove an inestimable treasure 
throughout the whole of her after life. 

We do ‘not, however, see that this is the | 
case so much as might be desired in modern | 
society. There is an appearance among the | 
women of the present day, of being too eager | 
for an immediate tribute of admiration, to | 
wait for the development of moral worth; | 
and thus they cultivate those more shining | 
accomplishments, which dazzle and delight | 
for the moment, but leave no materials for || 
agreeable reflection behind. Like the con- |} 
ductor of an exhibition of fireworks, they | 
play off their splendid combinations of light 
and color; but the magazine is soon expend- 
ed, and the scene closes with weariness, and || 
vacuity, and the darkness of night. 

What a waste of time, and means, and 
application, for such a result! What an ex- 
penditure of thought and feeling, to have 
produced this momentary display! Surely 
no philanthropist can behold unmoved the 
pitiful objects for which women, who court 
the incense of admiration, are spending their 
lives. Surely none of the patriot sons of 
Britain can look on, and see with indiffer- 
ence the sisters, the wives, the mothers, of | 
our English homes, perpetually employed, 
even in a world of care and suffering, of 
anxiety and disappointment, in administering 
to the momentary gratification of the eye 
and the ear, while the heart is left unsatisfied, | 
and the drooping soul uncheered. 

The desire of being beloved is an ambition 
of a far mote amiable and praiseworthy char- 
acter. But who shall record the endless va- 
riety of suffering it entails upon woman? I | 
will not believe of my sex, that it is the love 
of admiration only, which gives birth to all 
those rivalries and mortifications—that envy, , 
and spleen, and bitterness, which mar the fe- 
licity of female companionship. It must be 
some deeper feeling ; and I at least will give 
them credit for beiag wounded in a tenderer 
point than their vanity, before they can so 
far do violence to their gentler nature, as to 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


93 


revenge upon each other the slights and the 
humiliations they receive. 

Yes: it is to human calculation the most 
pardonable, and yet it is the most soul-be- 
setting sin of woman, to be perpetually in- 
vesting earthly objects with an interest too 
intense for her own happiness; and asking 
of some oracle she has herself established, 
for an answer to the language of her own 
heart. Let her seek as she may, the admi- 
ration and applause of the world, it never 
satisfies the craving of her soul. She must 
have something to come home to—a shelter 
even in the brightest sunshine—a bower in 
the fairest garden—a shrine within the rich- 
est temple. She cannot mingle with the 
stream of life, and float securely on, as one 
among the many. She will not even be ex- 
alted in solitary distinction. The world has 
no wealth to offer, that she would possess 
alone. 

This is the true nature of woman; and 
the home she seeks is in the hearts of those 
who are bound to her by affection. She 


knows that het place in this: lure is uvt to 
be maintained without unceasing care; and 
hence the solicitude she bestows upon things 
of trifing moment. She knows also that in 
some instances she is liable to be supplanted ; 
she feels, perhaps, that she is not worthy to 
monopolize so honorable a place; and hence 
her watchfulness and jealousy. It may be 
that she is “discarded thence,” for human 
love is sometimes treacherous; and hence 
her wounded spirit, and the occasional out- 
pouring of natural feeling, by which she 
brings upon herself the odium of bitterness 
and revenge. 

Thus the darkest faults of woman may 
often be traced back to those peculiarities of 
her nature, which, under favoring circum- 
stances, and with the Divine blessing, may 
constitute her highest recommendation, and 
surest source of happiness. How important 


is it, then, since to woman it is essential to be 
loved, that she should not expect to reap 
where she has never sown, and thus incur 
the most painful disappointment to which 
her suffering nature is liable ! 


With regard to the anxiety to be admired, 
then, I would propose that approve should be 
substituted for admire, and just so far as wo- 
men seek the approval of their friends, under 
the guidance of religious truth, there is every 
reason to believe they will reap an abundant 
reward. With regard to the desire to be 
beloved, I can only repeat, that the women 
of England are peculiarly blessed in the 
means they possess of rendering themselves 
estimable in society; and the opportunities 
they enjoy of cultivating the kindest and hap- 
piest feelings of our nature. They have the 
homes of England in their keeping; and the 
hearts within those homes must necessarily 
be attracted or repelled by the light or the 
shade which their presence diffuses around 
them. They cannot complain that circum- 
stances are against them in the attainment 
of moral worth. All the natural characteris- 
tics of their native country are in their favor. 
The happiness of the whole human family, 
and especially of man, supplies them with a 
never-failing motive. Nature and_ religion 
are hath on their side—the one to pronipt, 
the other to lure themon. They have the 
gratitude of their fellow-creatures awaiting 
their endeavors—and what is more, they 
have the gracious approval of their heavenly 
Father, as their encouragement and reward. 


CHAPTER XII. 


PUBLIC OPINION—-PECUNIARY R®SOURCES—IN- 
TEGRITY. 


Tue respect paid by women to public 
opinion, and to the conventional rules of 
seciety, might have been considered with 
some propriety under the head of love of 
admiration, did not the immediate connection 
of this subject with that of integrity, render 
it more suited to the present chapter. 

To use a popular Germanism, it is but a 
one-sided view of the subject that we take, 
when we suppose that the hope of being ad- 
mired is the strongest stimulus to the female 


el 


—$—$—$—$_$—_$_$__$$_ 


94 


character in all cases where her conduct is 
referred to public opinion. The dread of be- 
| ing censured or condemned, exercises, Tam 
inclined to think, a far more extensive influ- 
ence over her habits and her feelings. Any 
deviation from the fashionable mode of dress, 
or from the established usages of polished 
life, present an appalling difficulty to a wo- 
“man of ordinary mind, brought up under the 
tutelage of what is called the world. She 
cannot— positively cannot—dare not —will 
not do any thing that the world has pro- 
nounced unladylike. Nor, while,she lives in 
the world, and mixes in polished society, is it 
at all desirable that she should deviate from 
such universally acknowledged rules, except 
where absolute duty leads her into a different 
line of conduct. I should be the last person 


to advise a woman to risk the consequences 
of such deviations, simpiy for the sake of 
being singular; because, I regard the as- 
sumption of singularity for its own sake, as 
ohe of the most absurd of all the varied spe- 


cimens of affectation which human life affords. 

To choose to be singular without a ouff- 
cient reason, and to dare to be so in a noble 
| cause, are so widely different, that I desire to 
| be clearly understood in the remarks I am 
about to make, as referring strictly to those 
cases in which duty renders it necessary for 
women to deviate from the fashions and 
established customs of the time or place in 
which they live. 

While the tide of prosperity bears us 
smoothly on, and our means are ample, 
and our luxuries abundant, we suffer little 
inconvenience from the tyranny of the world 
in these respects. Indeed, it is rather an 
agreeable amusement to many ladies to con- 
sult the fashions of the day, and to be among 
the first to change their mode of dress—to 
order costly furniture, and to receive com- 
pany in the most approved and lady-like style. 
But as I have before observed, of the class 
of persons to which this work chiefly relates, 
the tide of prosperity is apt to ebb, as well as 
to flow ; and as it recedes from us the whole 
aspect of the world is not only changed to us, 
but the aspect of our conduct is changed to 


GENERAL HABITS OF 


the world; so that, what it approved in us 
before, and honored with its countenance, is 
now the subject of its extreme and bitter 
condemnation. 

It is then that we discover, we have been 
serving a hard master; but unfortunately for 
thousands of human beings, the discovery 
brings with it no freedom from that service. 
We loathe the cruel bondage; but habit is 
too strong for conviction, and. we continue to 
wear the galling chain. It is, then, in cases 
of adverse fortune, that we see the incalcu- 
lable benefit of having made the moral duties 
of social and domestic life the rule of our 
conduct, and of having regarded all outward 
embellishments as things of very subordinate 
importance. . 

It isa case of by no means rare occurrence, 
that the young women of England return 
home from school more learned in the modes 
of dress, and habits of conduct prevailing 
among the fashionable and the wealthy, than 
inany of those systems of intelectual culture in 
which they have been instructed. Or, if their 
huowledge has not oxtcuded to what is done 
in fashionable life, they have at least learned 
to despise what is done among the vulgar and |} 
the poor, to look upon certain kinds of dress |} 
as impossible to be worn, and to regard with 
supreme contempt every indication of the ab- | 
sence of fashionable manners. So faras their | 
means of information could be made to ex- 
tend, they have laid down, for the guidance {} 
of their future lives, the exact rules by which 
the outward conduct of a lady ought to be 
regulated, and by these rules they determine 
to abide. ‘ 

If this determination was applied exclusive- 
ly to what is delicate, refined, and lovely in 
the female character, they would unquestion- || 


ably be preparing themselves for being both |] : 
esteemed and beloved ; but unfortunately for 


them, their attention is too often directed to. || 
the mode of dress worn by persons much 
higher than themselves in worldly prosperity, 
and to all the minutie of look and manner, 
which they regard as indications of easy cir- 
cumstances and exemption from vulgar oc- || 
cupation. ; 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


95 


Nor is the school itself, or the mode of 
treatment there, to be regarded as the source 
of these ideas and conclusions. The customs 
of modern society and the taste of modern 
times are solely in fault. And wherever 
young ladies are congregated together with 
the same means of communication as at 
school, the same results must follow, until 
the public taste undergoes a material change, 
or until the women of England have become 
learned in a higher school of wisdom. 

With the preparation here alluded to, our 
young women enter upon social life; and as 
years roll on, the habits thus acquired of mak- 
ing custom and fashion the rule of their lives, 
| strengthen with the establishment of their 
| character, and become as parts of their very 
|| being. What then is the consequence of such 
| habits in the day of their adversity, when the 
| diminution of their pecuniary means leaves 
them no longer the power of conforming to 
| the world they have so loved? The conse- 
| quence is, that along with many real priva- 
| tions, their ideal sufferings are increased a 
| hundred-fold by the fact that they must dress 
| and live in a manner different from what they 
| have been accustomed to—in short, that they 
| must lose caste. 
| How little has the mere circumstance of 
| relinquishing our luxuries to do with the dis- 
tress attendant upon the loss of worldly sub- 
stance! We find every day that persons trav- 
elling expressly for enjoyment, joining in so- 
| cial excursions and even seeking the invigo- 
| ration of their health, and the refreshment of 
their spirits, from the sea-breezes, or in places 
of customary resort for the summer months, 
voluntarily resign more than half their habit- 
ual indulgences, and subject themselves, with- 
out a murmur, to the occupation of apart- 
ments which they would scarcely think possi- 
ble to be endured for a single day in their 
native town ; and all the while they are per- 
haps more happy and more cheerful than in 
their elegant drawing-rooms at home. 

It is evident, then, that it cannot be their 
individual ‘share in the gratification of artifi- 
cial wants, which they find it so heart-break- 
ing to resign. It must be that a certain num- 


ber of polite and refined individuals having 


combined to attach a high degree of impor- 
tance to the means of procuring the luxuries 
of life, all who belong to this class, when com- 
pelled to exhibit in public a manifest destitu- 
tion of such means, regard themselves, and 
expect to be regarded by others, as having 
become degraded in the sight of their fellow- 
creatures, and no longer entitled to their fa- 
vor or regard. 

It is of no use asserting that we all know bet- 
ter than to come to this conclusion—that man- 
kind are not so weak, or so unjust—that we 
appreciate the moral worth of an individual 
beyond the luxuries of his table, or the costli- 
ness of his dress. It is easy to say this; but 
it is not so easy to believe it, because the prac- 
tical proof of experience is against it. If, for 
instance, we cared for none of these things, 
why should the aspect of human life present 
such a waste of time, and health, and patience, 
and mental power, and domestic peace, in the 
pursuit of wealth, when that wealth is expend- 
ed, as soon as gained, in maintaining an ap- 


pearance of elegance and luxury before the. 


world ? i 
I am not prepared to argue about the ben- 


‘efits resulting from the encouragement of ar- 


tificial wants, and the increase of luxuries, on 


the broad scale of national prosperity. There 


are pens more able and more fit for such a 
purpose. My narrower views are confined 
to the individual evils resulting from an over- 


strained ambition to keep pace with our - 


wealthier associates in our general habits; 
and I would write with earnestness on this 
subject, because I believe that.in England, at 
the present time, these evils are of rapidly in- 
creasing extent. 

It may seem unimportant to those who 
have no experience in these affairs, to speak 
of the private and domestic disputes arising 
out of artificial wants, on one side, and in- 
ability to provide the demanded supply for 
them, on the other. Yet what family, in mod- 
erate circumstances, has not some record of 
scenes, alike humiliating to human nature, 
and destructive to human happiness, in which 
the ill-judged request, or the harsh denial— 


| 


96 


the importunate appeal, or the agonizing re- 
ply—the fretful remonstrance, or the bitter re- 
tort, have not at seasons cast a shade over 
the domestic hearth, and destroyed the peace 
of the circle gathered around the social board. 

it may appear still more like trifling, tospeak 
of the sensations, with which a member of a 
fallen family regards her dilapidated ward- 
robe, and looks, and looks in vain for a gar- 
ment sufficiently respectable to make her ap- 
pearance in before a rich relation. Perhaps 
she has but one—a call has to be made upon 
a person of distinction, and as she proceeds 
on her way, eyeing with watchful anxiety ev- 
ery speck and spray that would be likely to 
reduce her garment below the average of re- 
spectability, a storm overtakes her. There 
are carriages for all who can afford to pay 


for them, but none for her: and the agony of 


losing her last claim to gentility takes posses- 
sion of her soul. 

The reader may possibly smile at the ab- 
surdity of this case. A half-clad savage from 
some barbarous island, would probably smile, 
could he be made to understand it. But 
nothing can be further from exciting a smile 
than the real sensations it occasions. Noth- 
ing can be further from a smile, than the look 
with which a failing tradesman regards the 
forlorn condition of his hat, when he dares 
not brush it, lest he should render its destitu- 
tion more apparent. Nothing can be further 
from a smile, than the glance he casts upon 
his threadbare coat, when he knows of no pos- 
sible resource in art or nature that can sup- 
ply him with a new one. And nothing can 
be further from a smile, than the cold wel- 
come we give to a guest who presents him- 
self unexpectedly, and must, perforce, look in 
upon the scantiness of our half-furnished 
table. 

It is easy to class these sources of disquie- 
tude under the head of absurdities, and to call 
them unworthy of rational beings; but I do 
believe, there is more real misery existing in 
the world at the present time, from causes 
like these, than from all those publicly aknow- 
ledged calamities which are more uniformly 
attributed to the dispensations of Providence. 


GENERAL HABITS OF 


I do not mean that these miseries arise di- 


rectly from, or are by any means confined to, 
our personal appearance, or the furniture of 
our houses; but when we contemplate the 
failure of pecuniary means, as it is regarded 
by the world, and attempt to calculate the im- 
mense variety of channels through which the 
suffering it produces is made to flow, in con- 
sequence of the customs and habits of society, 
I believe they will be found to extend through 
every variety of human life, to the utmost 
range of human feeling. Is it not to escape 
this suffering that the man of unsound prin- 
ciples too frequently applies himself to dis- 
honorable means—that the suicide prepares 
the deadly draught—and that the emigrant 
sometimes forsakes his native land, and con- 
signs himself to the solitude of unpeopled 
wilds ‘—In short, what more remains within 
the range of human capability, which man has 
not done, with the hope of flying from the 
horrors attendant upon the falling away of his 
pecuniary means? 

When the reality of this suffering is ac- 
knowledged, as it must be by all who look 
upon society as it exists at the present mo- 
ment; the next subject of importance is, to 
consider how the suffering can be obviated, 
and its fatal effects upon the peace and hap- 
piness of society prevented. 

The most immediate means ‘that could be 
made to operate upon woman would unques- 
tionably be by implanting in her mind a deeper 
and more rational foundation of thought and 
feeling—to put a stop to that endless variety 
of ill-natured gossip which relates to the waut 
of elegance, or fashionable air in certain per- 
sons’ dress and manner of living; so that 
there should be no questioning, * What will 
be thought of my wearing this dress again ?” 
“What will Miss P., or Mrs. W. say, if they 
see our old curtains?’ “ What can the John- 
sons mean by travelling outside?’ “ What 
will the people at church or chapel say, when 
they see your shabby veil?’ “I positively 
don’t believe the Wilsons can afford a new 
carpet, or they would surely have one; and 
they have discontinued their subscription to 
our book-society.” 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 97 | 


It is neither grateful nor profitable to pur- 
sue these remarks any further than as they 
serve for specimens of that most contempti- 
ble of small-talk, which yet exercises a pow- 
erful influence over the female mind—so much 
so, that I’: have known the whole fabric of a 
woman’s philosophy entirely overthrown, and 
her peace of mind for the moment destroyed, 
by the simple question, whether she had no 
other dress than the one she was so often 
seen to wear. 

There is another instance that occurs to me 
as illustrating, in a striking manner, the sub- 
ject immediately under consideration: it is 
that of wearing mourning for a deceased rel- 
ative. ‘This custom is so generally acknow- 
ledged as desirable, that it needs no recom- 
| mendation from my pen. One would suppose, 
however, on a superficial view of it, that the 
wearing of black, as a general costume indi- 
cative of the absence of festivity or merriment 
from the bereaved family, was all that had 
been originally intended by this custom; and 
that it should thus become an outward testi- 
mony of respect and sorrow for the dead. 

The fashion of the world, however, has im- 
| posed upon this custom, as‘applies to females, 
certain restrictions, and additions so expen- 
sive in their nature as to render it rather an 
article of luxury to wear genteel mourning, 
or that which is indicative of the deepest 
grief. It interferes but little with the sorrow 
and seclusion of a recent bereavement, for the 
mistress of ample means to give orders for an 
external exemplification of precisely the de- 
gree of sorrow supposed to attend upon the 
loss of a parent, or a distant relative. But 

when the means of pecuniary expenditure 
are extremely small, and the materials for 
appearing properly in public have to be made 
up at home, and prepared for use within a 
very limited time, it is evident that greater 
regard to the sacredness of sorrow would 
| suggest the desirableness of a less elaborate 
style of dress, or perhaps a dress not abso- 
lutely new for the occasion. Ladies, how- 
ever, and those who have been accustomed 
to make gentility the primary rule of their 
conduct, must mourn genteelly; and, conse- 


quently, there are often scenes of bustling 

preparation, of invention, and studious ar- 

rangement—scenes, upon which, if a stranger 

should look in, he would see an appearance of | 
activity, and interest, almost amounting to 

amusement, in the very house where the shut- 
ters are still closed; and which are wholly at 

variance with the silence and_the sanctity of 

a deep and solemn grief. 

Nor is this all. So extremely becoming 
and lady-like is the fashionable style of mourn- 
ing, that, under the plea of paying greater re- 
spect to the memory of the dead, it has _be- 
come an object of ambition to wear it in its | 
greatest excellence ; and equally an object of 
dread, and source of humiliation, to be com- 
pelled to wear it in an inferior style. Thus, 
when the loss of a father is attended with the 
failure of his pecuniary resources, it adds no 
little to the grief into which his daughters are 
plunged, to be under the necessity of appear- 
ing so soon after their twofold loss, under such 
an outward sign of poverty as is generally 
understood by the world to be betrayed by 
cheap and humble mourning. 

Itis evident that if the preparation of mourn- 
ing had never been reduced to a system—so 
many folds of crape for a parent—so many 
for a sister, and so on—the peculiar style in 
which it might be made up would never have 
obtained half its present importance, and re- 
spectable women, of fallen fortunes, might 
then have appeared in public with the credit | 
of paying as much honor to the memory of the 
dead, as the more wealthy ; nay, they might 
even have been so absorbed in their heart- 
rending loss, and in all the solemn and affect- 
ing impressions it was calculated to inspire, 
as to forget to have any new preparation for 
the occasion, and might, without loss of re- 
spectability, appear again in those accustomed. 
habiliments of darkness and gloom which for- 
mer instances of family affliction and bereave- 
ment had been the means of bringing into use. 

I mention the instance of mourning, not be- 
cause it differs materially from many others, 
but because it appears to me to illustrate 
clearly and strikingly the degree of shame, 
and trouble, and perplexity, in which women | 


i 


GENERAL HABITS OF 


are involved by the habit of attaching too 

much importance to the usages of society. I 

know that it is beneficial to the character and 

the morals of women, that their good name 

should be guarded from every breath of re- 

proach ; and that the wholesome restrictions 
| of society are absolutely necessary to prevent 
them from sometimes venturing too far under 
the influence of generous and disinterested 
feeling. But my remarks apply exclusively 
to cases where their moral worth would be 
established, not endangered; and I would 
earnestly request my countrywomen to bear 
in mind the immense difference between de- 
viating from the rules of fashion, and break- 
ing through the wholesome restrictions of 
prudence. 

I have spoken in strong terms of the suf- 
ferings and inconveniences incident to women, 
from their slavery to the opinion of the world ; 
but were this consideration all that had to be 
taken into account, they would unquestiona- 
bly have a right to adjust the balance, and 
act according to their own choice. 

There is, however, a far more important 
question connected with this subject—and 
that is, the question of integrily. 

If there be one moral quality for which 
England as a nation is distinguished above 
all others, I should say it was her integrity : 
integrity in her intercourse with other na- 
tions ; integrity in the administration of her 
government and laws; integrity in the sound 
hearts and honorable feelings of her patriotic 
sons. 

And shall her daughters be less solicitous 
to uphold this high standard of moral worth? 
They answer “No!” But they are perhaps 
not all aware of the encroaching and _insidi- 
ous nature of artificial wants, and tastes, and 
habits, founded upon the fashion of the times 
rather than upon any lasting principle of 
right. ‘They are not all aware, that to dress 
and live beyond their means, is a species of 
public robbery; and that even if every law- 

‘ ful debt is paid, and the balance struck with- 
out injury to character or credit, there are 
still the poor, the starving, hungry, helpless 

They have 


we 


| poor, unsatisfied with bread. 


therefore the strong claims both of justice 
and benevolence to fulfil, before the integrity 
of their Christian character can be complete. 

With regard to general benevolence, and 
charity to the poor, we are apt to deceive 
ourselves to an extent which would be be- 
yond our belief, were we not convinced by 
the observation of every day, that few, very 
few of those even in the middle ranks of 
life—few even of those tender-hearted fe- 
males who are so painfully affected by every 
exhibition of human misery—do any thing at 
all commensurate with their means, towards 
alleviating the suffering which is to be found 
among the poor. 

I am not inclined to attach any high de- 
gree of merit to the mere act of giving money 
to the poor, because I esteem it a luxury to 
be thus instrumental in relieving their press- 
ing difficulties; and I am also in considera- 
ble doubt whether this is the best method of 
relieving them. The point I am about to re- 
mark upon, however, is the extreme incon- 
sistency of those longings, so prevalent 
among ladies, that they could give to the 
poor, and the lamentations they frequently 
utter relating to the absolute necessity they 
are under of not giving more. We find them 
elegantly dressed, dwelling among costly fur- 
niture, and denying themselves nothing which 
their wealthier neighbors enjoy ; eid all the 
while they do so wish they cou.d give more 
to the poor! © 

I confess it sickens the heart, and wearies 
the mind, to listen to absurdities like this. 
If these individuals would but let the matter 
rest, and be content to be fashionable without 
pretending to be generous, half their culpa- 
bility would cease toexist. But they go on 
to explain to you how their station in life, 
and their credit in’ society, require them to 
dress and live in a certain way, and. how 
they consider themselves doing a benefit to 
their country by their encouragement of its 
manufactures. It would not be inappropriate 
to ask them, as they enter a fashionable and 
expensive establishment to purchase some 
costly articles of dress, whether they are do- 
ing it in reality for the benefit of their country ? 


and there might be seasons when it would be 
equally appropriate to inquire, whether they 
prefer their appearance before the world, to 
the spiritual consolation of having made the 
injunctions of their blessed Saviour the rule 
of their conduct. 

The measure of charity which it is our 
duty to bestow upon the poor, is a point of 
very difficult adjustment, as well as the man- 
ner we may choose to adopt in the distribu- 
tion of our means. We cannot properly 


make ourselves the judge of a brother or a 


sister, in these respects. But if we have 
sufficient resources for the purchase of luxu- 
ries, it is in vain to pretend that we cannot 
give to the ‘poor ; and if we will not spare a 
little out of our little, we cannot expect to be 
believed when we. boast of the pleasure it 
would afford us to be charitable with more. 

There are noble instances afforded by wo- 
men in the middle classes of society in Eng- 
land, of what can really be done in the way 
of benevolence, in a persevering and unob- 
trusive manner, which it is truly refreshing 
to the soul to contemplate. And I would 
earnestly recommend my young countrywo- 
men to look diligently to these, and to ask 
whether they cannot go and do likewise, 
rather than to accustom themselves to the 
dangerous habit of inquiring whether they 
cannot afford to purchase what is fashiona- 
ble and becoming to a lady, even when it is 
not necessary for comfort or respectability. 
By this means they would at least be able to 
attain a degree of merit; for if they did not 
go to the extent of the truly devoted and 
praiseworthy, they might avoid involving 
themselves in that interminable chain of ex- 
pensive contingencies, which are sure to fol- 
low, if we set out in life by making it our first 
object of ambition to stand well with the 
world, and to accommodate our dress and 
mode of living to that which is most admired 
in society. 

The fallacious mode of reasoning induced 
by too slavish a conformity to the fashions 
and the customs of the world, creates an 
endless series of entanglements most fatally 
seductive to woman’s better feelings. The 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


99 


fact of having, or not having, absolute debts 
unpaid, seems to be, with most young ladies, 


the boundary-line of their morality, as relates 


to their pecuniary. affairs ; and well would it 
be if all were strictly scrupulous even to this 
extent. Within this line, however, there may 
be deviations from the integrity of a noble, 
generous, and enlightened mind, which yet 
the world takes no cognizance of, and which 
do not materially affect the character, as it is 
judged of by society in general. 

I have said that the world is an unjust || 
judge, and in no instance is it more so than 
in this. The world pays homage to an ex- || 
pensive, elegant, and lady-like appearance,— |} 
but it takes little note of the principle that }} 
would condemn this appearance, if it could 
not be maintained. without encroachment up- 
on a parent’s limited means. The restric- 
tions of civil law refer only to the payment of || 
pecuniary debts; and when these are dis- 
charged, we may appear without reproach 
before society. But happily for us, we have 
a higher standard of moral duty;. and the |} 
integrity of the Christian character’ requires || 
a strict observance of points of conduct un- 
seen by society, and perhaps known only to 
ourselves, and to the great Searcher of hu- 
man hearts, by whose judgment we must 
stand or fall. : 

Reasoning, then, upon these subjects, from 
higher principles, we clearly perceive that we 
have no right to indulge ourselves with luxu- 
ries, or to purchase the countenance and fa- 
vor of society, at the expense of a parent’s || 
peace, or by the sacrifice of the comforts of || 
his old age. We have no right to encroach 
upon means not strictly and lawfully our 
own, even though they should be granted to 
our necessities, for more than belongs to ac- 
tual decency of appearance, and sufficiency 
of subsistence, except in those cases where it 
is the desire of wealthy friends or relatives 
that we should be adorned and supplied at || 
their expense. We have no right, and no 
woman of good feeling would wish to estab- 
lish a right, to dress and live at the extreme 
of expenditure which a father, by nothing less 
than hourly and incessant toil, can obtain the 


HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 


means of affording. We have no right to 
make presents, and thus obtain the meed of 
gratitude and admiration for our generosity, 
with money which is immediately transmit- 
ted from our father’s hand for that especial 
purpose, while our own resources remain un- 
diminished, our own private store of treas- 
ures undivided, and our circumstances whol- 
ly unaffected. 

I do not say that to each one of the im- 
mense variety of daily and familiar actions, 
which might be classed under this head, there 
attaches the highest degree of actual culpa- 
bility. ‘They are rather instances of encroach- 
ment, than of absolute injustice and wrong. 
But I do say that the habit of encroaching, 
just so far as decency will permit, and as oc- 
casion seems to warrant, upon all that is 
noble and generous, upright and kind, in hu- 
man conduct, has a fatal tendency to corrupt 
the heart, while it produces at the same time 
a deadening effect upon the highest and ho- 
liest aspirations of the soul. 

What answer can be made by such a soul 
to the secret questionings of its internal mon- 
itor? Or how shall we appeal to the gra- 
cious and merciful Creator of the universe, 
who has given us all this glorious world for 
our enjoyment, and all the elements of nature 
for our use; who has looked upon us in our 
degiadation, and pitied our infirmities, and 
opened the gates of heaven, that his mercy 
might descend to us in a palpable and hu- 
man form, and that we might receive the 
conditions of his offered pardon, be healed, 
and live’—how shall we appeal to him in 
our private prayers, or stand before him in 
the public sanctuary, with this confession on 
our lips—that just so far as man could ap- 
prove or condemn our actions, we have 
deemed it expedient to be just; but that 
to him, and to the Saviour of our souls, we 
have grudged the incense of a willing mind; 
and therefore we have enhanced our pleas- 
ures, and gratified our pride, and fed our 
selfishness, by al those trifling, yet forbid- 
den means, which he has pronounced to be 
offensive in his sight ? 

Besides these considerations, there is one 


of immeasurable importance, connected with 
our conduct in the sight of God. No hu- 
man mind can set a bound, or prescribe a 
measure, to its voluntary deviations from the | 
line of duty. We have been supposing a | 
case in which these deviations are extremely || 
minute, and yet so numerous as to form as |} 
it were a circle round the heart—a circle |} 
of evil. Imagine, then, this circle widening, |} 
and widening, year after year, through the | 
seasons of youth and maturity, and the } 
dreary winter of old age. What an awful 
and melancholy spectacle does the state of | 
that heart present, enclosed as it were ina 
deleterious atmosphere, and growing perpet- 
ually colder and more callous by exclusion 
from the blessed light of heaven ! 

Oh! let us not begin to breathe this dead- 
ly atmosphere! And you who are yet in- 
experienced in the ways of human life, 
whose habits are not formed, whose paths |} 
not chosen, whose line of conduct not decid- | 
ed, what a blessing would it be to you, both 
in this world and in the world to come, were 
you to choose that better part, that would en- 
able you to look with a single eye to what is 
most acceptable in the Divine sight, and most 
in accordance with the will of God; leaving 
the embellishments of person, the luxuries of 
taste, and the appropriation of worldly es- 
teem, to be enjoyed or relinquished with a 
grateful and contented mind, just as your 
heavenly Father may permit ; and bearing 
always about with you, as a talisman against 
the encroachments of evil, even in the most |} 
simple or most specious form, the remem- |} 
brance that none of these things are worthy 
of a single wish, if they must necessarily be || 
obtained by the violation of his laws, or ac- 
companied by the tokens of his displeasure ! 


a ee 


CHAPTER XIII. 


HABITS AND CHARACTER—INTELLECTUAL AT- 
' TAINMENTS——-EMPLOYMENT OF TIME—MORAL | 
COURAGE—RIGHT BALANCE OF MIND. 


To those gentle readers who have been |} 
kind enough to accompany me through the |} 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


foregoing pages, and who feel inclined to ex- 
ercise their forbearance towards me through 
a few more, I feel that some apology, or 
rather some explanation, is necessary for the 
manner in which I have so often been com- 
pelled to speak of the extraordinary ambition 
manifested by my countrywomen, in the 
present day, to make themselves mistress of 
every possible variety of intellectual attain- 
ment that can be acquired at school; and I 
cannot help fearing that many of my remarks 
may appear to have been written with a view 
to depreciate the value of these treasures of 
mind, and, as far as my single influence may 
extend, to deter others from the pursuit of 
them. 

So far from this, I would repeat, if possi- 
ble, in words which could not be forgotten, 
my firm conviction that no human being can 
learn too much, so that their sphere of intel- 
ligence does not extend to what is evil. But, 
while the accumulation of a vast store of 
knowledge is one of the objects we have in 
view in the culture of the mind, we must not 
forget that it is by no means the only one. 
In rearing an infant, we not only supply its, 
appetite with food, but also find it necessary 
to teach it the habit, and assist it in the pow- 
er, of exercising its limbs; we guide its steps, 
and, as far as we are able, give it just notions 
of exercising its bodily functions with the best 

effect. 

To feed the mind, then, is but a small part 
of our duty. If we leave it helpless and in- 
ert, without ability to exercise its various 
powers, and judgment to exercise them 
aright, the most important portion of that 
duty is neglected. Thus: far, I believe, all 
who are employed in teaching the young will 
go along with me, for their experience must 

afford strong evidence in favor of this state- 
ment. There are some points, however, in 
which, it appears to me, they have allowed 
the fashion of the times to render their sys- 
tem of instruction extremely defective. But, 
for this, 1 am by no means prepared to say 
that they are in any degree to blame; be- 
cause they have the taste of the times to con- 
ee and they would obtain little credit for 


a a Ct 


101 


making our young women what they ought 
to be, if that taste was not correct. 

With regard to moral discipline, or that 
mode of instruction by which women would 
be fitted for their domestic and social duties, 
I have expressed my opinion in an earlier 
chapter of this work, and, with regard to in- 
tellectual culture, I hope to be pardoned if I 
now venture a few remarks. 

It appears to me, in looking abroad upon 
society, and contemplating the immense va- 
riety of mental attainments which prevail 
among the young women of the present day, 
that they are in imminent danger of suppos- 
ing, when they have acquired a vast amount 
of verbal knowledge, that the great work of 
education is done. They are, in short, in 
danger of mistaking the means for the end; 
and of resting satisfied that they are wiser | 
than the generation before them. 

In the acquirement of languages this is 
particularly the case. A young lady obtains 
the reputation of being clever, when she has 
made herself mistress of several languages; 
and with this she is generally satisfied ; while 
she ought to remember that she has but 
gained possession, as it were, of the keys of 
vast storehouses of knowledge, for the use of 
which she is responsible to society. 

Again, in the pursuit of science, there is a 
technicality that strikes the ear, and gives an 
idea of vast superiority in the way of attain- 
ments; and there are facts that may be im- 
pressed upon the memory, without the mind 
being in any way enlarged or enlightened by 
the reception of them. It is easy, for in- 
stance, to talk of botany, without the thoughts 
at any time extending themselves to the gen- 
eral economy of vegetation; and of astrono- 
my, so as to tell the distances of different 
planets, without the soul being penetrated by | 
one ray of illumination from the wisdom 
which designed, and which controls the star- 
ry heavens. Itis easy to attend a few scien- 
tific lectures, and to return home talking of 
the names of gases, and of some of the most 
striking phenomena of electricity, the gal- 
vanic battery, and other popular exhibitions 
of the lecture-room ; but it requires a totally 


Se 
ee 


; : sare 


different process of mind to take a general 
survey of the laws of the universe, and to 
bow before the conviction that all must have 


| been created by a hand divine. 


From our observations of rural or roman- 
tic scenery, it is easy to babble about woods 
and waterfalls, about the ruggedness of 
mountains, and the grandeur of the raging 
sea; but it does not follow as a necessary 
consequence that we have formed any con- 
ception of the idea of abstract beauty, or of 
the reverential, but admiring awe, which true 
sublimity is calculated to inspire. It does 


| not follow that we shall have learned to im- 


body in the elements of nature those subtler 
essences of spirit and of mind, which, to the 
poetical and imaginative, people every desert, 
and render vocal with melody the silence of 
night. 

It may be said, that in this busy world 
there is little employment for the imagina- 
tion—-litile scope for the exercise of poetical 
associations. I grant—for I am compelled to 
do so—that poetry should be elbowed out of 
our working world to make room for ma- 
chinery ; but I see no reason why the same 
train of thought, and course of reasoning, 
should not be carried on. I grant that the 
materials are different; but why .should we 
not still endeavor to raise an altar in our 
minds for a higher, holier worship than that 
of the mammon of this world?) Why should 
we fix our attention solely upon the material 
part of the universe, satisfying ourselves 
with the names of substantial things, with 
their variety, classification, and physical 
properties? Why should we confine our- 
selves to counting the pillars in the temple 
of nature, computing its magnitude and 
measuring its height, without referring all 
our calculations, through the highest range 
of imagination, to the wonder-working power 
of the great Artificer? 

It may be said that we dwell too much in 
cities, and lead too artificial a life, to be able 
to perceive the instrumentality of Divine 
Wisdom in all the events that pass beneath 
our observation. If this be the case, there is 


|| the more need that we should rouse our- 


HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 


t 


selves by fresh efforts, to penetrate beyond 
the polished surface of the world in which 
we live, into the deeper mysteries that lie be- 
yond—there is the more need that we should 
endeavor to perceive, in the practical affairs 
of busy life, those great principles by which 
the laws of nature are governed, and the 
system of the universe upheld. 

Tf, for instance, we live in the heart of a 
thickly-peopled city, with the rush of its busy 
multitudes around us, and the labor of man’s 
hand, and the efforts of his ingenuity, perpet- 
ually before our eyes, there is no reason why 
we should look only at the splendor of its 


manufactured articles, amuse our fancy with 


the outward aspect of its varied exhibitions 
of art, or regard with disgust the occupations 
of the mechanic, because he handles the raw 
material, and touches what is gross. Would 
it not be more consistent with the exercise of 
an enlightened mind, to contemplate the won- 
ders of that power which the Creator has in- 
trusted to the use of man, so that he lays 
hold, as it were, of the elements of nature, 
and makes them submit to his will? Night 
falls not with stillness and repose upon the 
city ; but we walk as through a living blaze: 
and shall we pass on, like children, pleased 
with the glitter and the show, without reflecting 
that man has been able to convert the darkest 
substance from the bowels of the earth into 
the very source of all this light! Mountains 
and valleys, tracts of land and floods of wa- 
ter, intervene between us and our distant 
friends; but we fly to them with a rapidity 
which, a few years ago, would have been 
pronounced, even by philosophers, impossi- 
ble. And shall we move like senseless mat- 
ter; even through the very heart of the moun- 
tain, caleulating only the speed at which we 
travel, without awaking to the momentous 
fact, that by the ingenuity of man, mere va- 
por, proverbial as it is for its weakness, emp- 
tiness, and nothingness in the creation, has 
been converted into the master-power by 
which the mighty operations of men are car- 
ried on? We take our daily walks through 
the bustling city, and gaze at the splendid 
exhibitions of taste, and learn the names of 


ey — Coe cilia Fated, ier Bb. ca 5 5 “ wa 


HL 
+ = a he = see ret a ad ak Ea Fe ote "Seba i Be Bl ae 


a a —*|"" 


{ 


Da Ne ae eS Repack aX Sa Hi 


-1y 


——, 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


— 


those who are most skilled in music and 
painting, and all the sister arts; and we 
speak in the cant terms that are most in 
vogue, and think we display superiority of 
mind and intelligence to use them well; but 
should we not at the same time cultivate the 
habit of bearing in remembrance the un- 
changing principles of beauty, and of refer- 
ring back to them whatever is offered to our 
admiration in the form of art? 

We speak of the degrading cares and sor- 
did views that occupy the working world; 
but how have we endeavored to pass beyond 
these, and to connect them with the world 
of thought? We hear of the vast amount 


| of labor carried on, and the relative expenses 


incurred, and the different things that can be 
made and done within a given time: but why 
should we not sometimes make a transition 
of thought from the material, to the means 
of working it—from the means, to the power 
—and from the power that is imparted, to 
the Creator who imparts. To-day the me- 
chanic plies his busy tools. To-morrow his 
hand may have become rigid and motionless 
beneath the stroke of death. Thousands and 
tens of thousands pass away from the scene 
of their labors, but the labor still goes on; for 


the laws of nature change not, and the prin-, 


ciples upon which the labor of man is carried 
into effect, remain the same. 

Weare too apt, because we mingle in popu- 
lous and busy scenes, and feel the necessity 
of moving with the tide, to forget that what 


we see and hear, what is obvious to the 


; senses and palpable to the touch, is not all 
| that we live for, or even all that we live 


amongst. We should endeavor to find 
breathing-times even amidst the hurry and 
the rush of present things. We should 
sometimes pause among the multitude, and 
listen mentally, to the beating of the mighty 
pulse of a tumultuous city, and ask, whether 
the Creator and Sustainer of this living mass 
is not beholding the operation of the various 
powers he has set in motion, marking its de- 


fects, supplying its deficiencies, and sustain- - 


ing the stupendous whole. We should then 


be enabled to perceive something of the 


working of the inner plan, how one class of 
human beings depends upon another—how 
the principles of justice establish checks and 
counter-checks, so that no single power shal 
be predominant; how poverty and riches al- 
ternate, and how the vices of the bad are 
made to call forth the virtues of the good ; 
and by renewing our conviction that God is 
indeed here, as well as present to the more 
peaceful and harmonious portions of his cre- 
ation, we should renew our faith, and enjev 
perpetual refreshment for our souls. 

What we most want in education, then, is 
to invest material ihings with the attributes 
of mind ; and we want this more and more, as 
commerce, and artsand manufactures increase 
in importance and extent. We want it more 
and more to give interest to our familiar and 
necessary occupations; and we want it espe- 
cially, that we may assist in redeeming the 
character of English men from the mere ani- 
nial, or rather, the mere mechanical state, into 
which, from the nature and urgency of their 
occupations, they are in danger of falling. 

We want it also for ourselves; fora time 
seems to be approaching, when the middle 
class of society in England will have to be 
subdivided ; and when the lower portion of 
this class will of necessity have to turn their 
attention to a different style of living, and to 
different modes of occupation, thought, and 
feeling. At present all this class are educa- 
ted nearly upon the same plan. The happi- 
ness. of society, and our moral necessities, 


will surely, before long, suggest the import- 


ance of females of this class being fitted for 
something very different from drawing-room 
exhibitions. 

All that I have written in this volume, irm- 
perfect as it is, has been stimulated by a de- 


sire to increase the moral worth of my coun-— 


trywomen, and enhance the domestic happi- 
ness of my native land. In order that this 
should be done effectually, it seems to me in- 
dispensably necessary, that women, whose 
parents are possessed of slender means, or 
engaged in business, a:d who can with ex- 
treme difficulty accomplish even so much as 
what is called “making their way,’—that 


MEO 


rs 


Sita 


HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 


women in this class should be educated, not 
simply for ladies, but for useful and active 
members of society—and for this purpose, 
that they also should consider it no degrada- 
tion to render their activity conducive to the 
purposes of trade. 

It is a curious anomaly in the structure of 
modern society, that gentlemen may employ 
their hours of business in almost any degrad- 
ing occupation, and if they have but the 
means of supporting a respectable establish- 
ment at home, may be gentlemen still; while, 
if a lady does but touch any article, no mat- 
ter how delicate, in the way of trade, she 
loses caste, and ceases to be a lady. 

I say this with all possible respect for those 
who have the good sense and the moral 
courage to employ themselves in the business 
of their fathers and their husbands, ‘rather 
than to remain idle and dependent; because 
I know that many of them are ladies in the 
best acceptation of the word—ladies in the 
delicacy and propriety of their feelings, and 
more than ladies in the noble dignity of their 
general conduct. Still I doubt not they have 
had their difficulties to encounter from the 
influence of public opinion, and that their 
generous feelings have been often wounded 
by the vulgar prejudices prevailing in socie- 
ty against their mode of life. 

With the improvements of art, and the in- 
crease of manufactures, there must be an in- 
creased demand for mechanics and work- 
people of every description ; and supposing 
English society to be divided, as it soon must 
be, into four classes, there surely can be no 
reason why the second class of females should 
not be so trained as to partake in the advan- 
tages resulting from this extended sphere of 
active and useful occupation. 

The only field at present open for what is 
considered lady-like employment, is that of 
educating the young; and hence the number 
of accomplished young women, too refined 


| for common usefulness, whose claims to pub- 


lic attention as governesses tend so much to 
reduce the value of their services in that im- 
portant sphere. 

There are however, many descriptions of 


occupation connected with business in its va- 
ried forms, which are by no means polluting 
to the touch, or degrading to the mind; and 
it would be an unspeakable advantage to 
hundreds of young females, if, instead of use- 
less accomplishments, they could be instructed 
in these. In addition to all kinds of fancy 
millinery, the entire monopoly of which they 
might surely be permitted to enjoy, I would 
point out especially to their attention, the art 
of drawing patterns for the muslin and calico 
printers, an occupation which appears pecu- 
liarly adapted to the female taste, and which 
might be carried on without the least en- 
croachment upon the seclusion of domestic 
life, and the delicacy of the female character. 
I have been led to understand that this branch 
of business is almost exclusively carried on 
by men; and I cannot but regret, that an 
employment, which offers a tempting luxury 
to those who suffer from the combined evils 
of idleness and scanty means, should not also 
be rendered productive of pecuniary benefit 
to women. 

It seems, however, to be from this pecuniary 
benefit that they shrink ; for when we observe 
the nature of their daily occupations, their 
common stitchery, their worsted work, their 
copied music, their ingeniously-invented arti- 
cles for bazaars, it would be difficult to say in 
what sense they are more agreeable, or more 
dignified, than many branches of art con- 
nected with trade. It must, therefore, be the 
fact of receiving money for what they do, 
which renders the latter so objectionable ; 
and it is a strange paradox in our daily ex- 
perience, that ‘this money should all the while 
be the.very thing of which they are most in 
want. 

The degradation of what is vulgarly called 
making their own living, is, I believe, the ob- 
stacle of paramount difficulty ; and therefore 
it is to reduce this difficulty, and to render it 
more easily surmountable, that our solicitude 
for the well-being of society, with all our 
influence, and all our talent, ought to be 
employed. 

It is in vain to argue in such cases, that 
individuals have no right to think and feel as 


they do—that women ought to be wiser than 
to consider themselves degraded by working 
for their own subsistence; while such is the 
constitution of society, and such the early 
bias of the female mind, that it is almost im- 
possible they should do otherwise. The great 
point to be gained, is to penetrate at once to 
the root of the matter, and to begin by a dif- 
ferent system of education, to render moral 
courage—the courage to do what is right— 
the first principle of female conduct. 

What a world of misery this single prin- 

| ciple of action, thoroughly grafted into the 
| character, would spare the sons and daugh- 
ters of men! 
I am inclined to think the foundation of 
moral courage must be laid in very early life, 
| so as to render it effectual in bearing us up 
| under the trials of maturer age; and it is not 
| only to elevate the general character of my 
country women, but to spare them at least 
half the sufferings they now endure, that | 
would most earnestly recommend them, in 
cultivating the mind, to cultivate also the in- 
| estimable power of exercising moral courage, 
whenever the claims of duty are set in oppo- 
sition to the opinions of the world. 

For want of moral courage, how many 
misunderstandings do we leave unsettled 
among our friends, until 


“The lightly uttered, careless word,” 


the thoughtless action, or the false report, are 
allowed to poison the very springs of affec- 
tion, and to separate the dearest friends! 
For want of moral courage, how often, and 
how fatally, do we fail in the sacred duty of 
reproving what we see amiss, until the evil 
grows and magnifies, and extends itself, and 
becomes so obvious to general perception, 
that we scruple not to join in its condemna- 
tion, forgetting that our own want of faith- 


existence ! Wilts 

For want of moral courage, how do we 
sink, and see others sinking every day, un- 
der the pressure of those pecuniary difficul- 
ties which I have already described, until we 
are guilty of almost every species of paltry 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


family. 


105 


meanness, to support an appearance of re- 
spectability before the world, forgetting that 
the grand foundation of all respectability of 
character, is an honorable, independent, and 
upright mind! For want of moral courage, 
how often do we stoop and cringe, and sub- 
mit to contumely, and eat the bread of hu- 
miliation, and wear the rich garments that 
ought to cover us with shame, because we 
are despicable enough to live upon what is 
not lawfully our own, and what is often || 
granted without good-will, and received with- || 
out satisfaction ! 

Oh! that the women of England would 
rouse themselves with one accord, to break 
these galling chains !—to exemplify in their 
own conduct, and to teach their daughters, 
that there is no earthly enjoyment, no per- 
sonal, embellishment, no selfish gratification, 
worth the sacrifice of just and honorable 
feeling—that the humblest occupation, un- 
dertaken from a sense of duty, becomes en- 
nobled in the motive by which it is prompted, 
and that the severest self-denial may be 
blessed and honored by the Father of mer- 
cies, if endured in preference to an infringe- 
ment upom thosé laws which he has laid 
down for the government of the human 


e 


There is another point of view, in which it 


appears to me that the present character of 
| the women of England is extremely defective. 
It is as regards a right balance of mind; or, 
in other words, a just estimate of the rela- 
_ tive importance of things in general. 


From the natural construction of the mind 
of woman, from the quickness of her per- 


ceptions, and the intensity of her momentary 
feelings, she is apt to lay hold of every thing 


calculated immediately to strike her fancy, or 


_to excite her emotions, with an earnestness 


that excludes the possibility of -her mind be- 


fulness may possib¥y be chargeable with its ing kept alive to other impressions, even 


more essential to her happiness, and more || 


| important in themselves. 


Hence, we find in society, that women too 


frequently invest the affairs of the moment, |] 
| the circumstances occurring around them, || 
} and their own personal experience, with a 


106 


degree of interest wholly incomprehensible 
to strangers, and often utterly contemptible 
to men. I do not—I will not believe—that 
women are inferior to what is called the 
noble sex, in the moral world; but I do be- 
lieve that from this very cause arises more 
than half the contumely bestowed upon their 
littleness of character. It is not that they 
want capacity or understanding to judge of 
many things as well as men. It is that they 
are so occupied with what is obvious on the 


surface of things, that they will not look be-~ 


yond ; and hence their unceasing propensity 
to trifle, and to render themselves apparently 
inferior to what they really are. 

This is the great leading defect in woman’s 
character; and it is the more to be regretted, 
that it presents to her mind innumerable 
sources of disquietude, which, with a more 
correct perception of the relative value of 
things, she might escape. She is apt, for in- 
stance, to attach as much importance, for the 
time, to the failure of her own musical per- 
formance, as to the failure of a bank; and 
she appears to care little for the invasion of 
a foreign country, when injury is threatened 
to her best attire. It is no trifling humilia- 
tion to those who mix in society, if they have 
been accustomed to raise their views a little 
higher in the contemplation of nature and 
of human life, to be perpetually persecuted, 
in the midst of agreeable and intelligent con- 
versation, with questions about the minutic 
of dress and conduct in some limited and 
local sphere of observation. 

I would not speak thus contemptuously of 
the familiar habits of my sex, if I did not 
know that they were capable of something 
better, and if I did not desire—as I desire their 
good and their happiness—that they would 
rouse themselves above this paltry littleness, 
and learn to become, what I am confident 
they might be, not only equal, but interesting 
and instructive companions to men. 

I have before remarked, that there is now, 
more than ever, a demand for the exercise 
of their highest powers, and their noblest 
energies, to counteract the effects of unre- 
mitting toil in obtaining the perishing things 


HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 


of this life. 
ever upon their capabilities of enhancing so- 
cial and domestic happiness; and there is 
an equal demand for the exercise I have 
already recommended, of the power they 
possess of investing what is material with 
the attributes of mind. 

The littleness of character I have just de- 
scribed is one of the chief causes why they 
are not so estimable as they might be in their 
homes, or so interesting as they are capable 
of being in their conversation with men. 
And thus their husbands and their brothers 
are becoming increasingly attracted by the 
political associations, and the public calls 
now leading them away from those domestic 
scenes which offer little to excite the atten- 
tion, or fascinate the mind. 

It may be said, that English women in the 
present day are, in this respect at least, su- 
perior to the generation before them. But 


granting that they are so, the necessity for | 


further improvement remains the same, be- 
cause the habits of men are progressively 
involving them more deeply in the interests 
of public life, so-that unless some strenuous 
efforts are made on the part of women, the 


far-famed homes of England will lose their: |} 


boasted happiness, and with their happiness, 
their value in the scale of our country’s 
moral worth. 

This is a serious subject, and one which 
ought to appeal to every mother’s bosom 
throughout our favored land. It ought to 
be the solemn . inquiry of every woman who 
has the sacred duty of training up the young 
committed to her trust, in what manner she 
may best guard against this growing evil, so 
as to stem the desolating tide which seems 
to threaten our domestic peace. 

Let her, then, after this solemn inquiry has 
been made, endeavor to place herself, in idea, 
in the situation of a traveller who ascends a 
mountain, and look upon the varied aspects 
of human iife as he regards the scene pre- 
sented to his view. At first he will be struck 
with the magnitude of the rock he is climb- 
ing, amused, perhaps, with the plants that 
creep along its surface, and astonished with 


There is a greater demand than | 


THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 


the opening out of distant valleys, and broad 
rivers rolling between other hills, amongst 
which his eye had never penetrated before. 
He advances a little higher, and sees other 
views extending far and wide, and the pin- 
nacle of rock he at first thought so stupen- 
dous, diminishing beneath his feet—higher 
still, and the broad river, with its sweeping 
tide, has shrunk into a silver thread—still 
higher, and the pinnacle of rock is imper- 
ceptible, and he feels at last that he has 
gained the actual summit of the highest 
mountain, where he can compare the real 
height and distances of objects, and perceive 
how limited in comparison was the line 
which formed the original boundary of his 
vision—how small and low, and compara- 
tively contemptible, the highest eminence to 
which he had then ascended. 

It is in this manner that we ought to ac- 
custom ourselves to realize those views of 
human life, and that estimate of sublunary 
things, that would bring all to the standard 
of their real worth. 

Judged of by this process, and tried by this 
rule, how differently should we appreciate 
the ordinary and familiar affairs of life! 
How little should we find to occupy our 
thoughts, or engage our affections, in the 
trifles that now constitute the actual business 
of our lives—how much should we find to 
admire and value in what we now despise ! 

It is to mothers, especially, that I would 
recommend this method of adjusting the bal- 


107 


ance of the infant mind, because the longer 
the weights are allowed to remain unequal, 
and the balance untrue, the more extensive 
must be the evil resulting from the erroneous 
data upon which the youthful mind will rea- 
son. And let them remember, that while the 
mistakes of their management will probably 
be exhibited more strikingly in the conduct 
of their sons, their daughters will extend the 
evil to a wider range of operation, by in- 
stilling it again into the minds of another 
generation. 

It is not through a lifetime only, though 
that were sufficient for our follies—it may be 
through the endless ages of eternity, that our 
good or evil influence shall extend. I have 
pointed out to my countrywomen, as I pur- 
sued this work, the high ambition of preserv- 
ing a nation from the dangers which threaten 
the destruction of its moral worth; but be- 
yond this view, wide and exalted as it un- 
questionably is, there opens out a field of 
glory, upon which to enter might seem bless- 
edness enough. Yet, when we contemplate 
the possibility of being the means of inducing 
others to enter with us, and those the most 
beloved of -earth’s treasures, surely it is 
worthy of our best energies—our most fer- 
vent zeal—our tears—our prayers—that we 
may so use our influence, and so employ our 
means, as that those whose happiness has 
been committed to our care, may partake 
with us in the enjoyment of the mansions of 
eternal rest. 


= 2 wi avs 
% 5 at - } y ee 3 z 
' % cis 3 3 
; =o i t 


YOK, Maye VALOR LA tee Te 


Ve 


G 3 : See 


DEDICATED BY ESPECIAL PERMISSION TO 
FER MAJESTY THE QUEEN. 


THE 


WIVES OF ENGLAND, 


Pua LYE DUTIES; 
DOMESTIC INFLUENCE, AND SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS 


BY MRS. ELLIS, 


AUTHOR OF “THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND,” 
“THE POETRY OF LIFE,” ETC. 


“The greatest difficulty of my task has been the laying bare, as it were, before the public eye, the privacy of married life— 
of that life whose sorrows the heart alone can know, and with whose joys it is the universal privilege of all who share them, 
that no stranger shall intermeddle. 

*“But if the principles it has been my simple aim to advocate, should meet the approbation of my countrywomen, I would 
fondly hope to be associated with their fireside enjoyments, as one whose highest ambition would have been to render their 
pleasures more enduring, their hopes more elevated, and their happiness more secure.’’— From the Author’s Preface. 


AUTHOR’S EDITION, 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


NEW YORK: 


J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET. 
1843. 


6 


O Garioe 


4 ay 
Maid, 


he Hotel 


nt pai wilh pa . 


Wola 
Seria ce 
A wee. 


huh 


yas at 


»TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN, 


IN WHOSE EXALTED STATION 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES OF DOMESTIC LIFE PRESENT THE BRIGHTEST EXAMPLE 
TO HER COUNTRYWOMEN, 
AND THE SUREST PRESAGE OF HER EMPIRE’S GLORY 5 
Wife Wolume fs gratefully Preerihen, 
BY HER MAJESTY’S 


MOST OBEDIENT AND MOST DEVOTED SERVANT, 


THE AUTHOR, 


In writing on any subject, and particu- 
larly for the purpose of doing good, there 
are always two extremes to be avoided— 
that of being too general, and that of be- 
ing too minute. 

By generalizing too much, the writer 
incurs the risk of being considered by the 
reader as having little actual knowledge 
of the state of human affairs, and conse- 
quently little sympathy either with those 
who enjoy, or with those who suffer. 
Without saying any thing to disparage in 
other respects the value of those excellent 
books on female duty, in many of which 
are included the duties of married women, 
I confess they have all appeared to me 
too general—too much as if the writer 
had not been personally identified with 
the subject, had never entered into the 
minutize of private and domestic life, or 
did not feel, what the heart of woman 
must feel, under its peculiar trials. 

But, while endeavoring to avoid this 
extreme, I am quite alive to the suspicion 
that I may have fallen into the other; 
and if the mere ambition of writing a book 
had been my object, I should have felt 
painfully that those who read only for 
amusement might lay aside the volume 
altogether, as trifling, common-place, and 
tame. Yet such is my confidence in the 
power of human sympathy, that I fear- 
lessly trust the practical hints which 
occupy these pages to the kindness of my 
countrywomen, assuring them that I ask 
for no higher reward, than, that while 
some of them are reading my homely 


PREFACE. 


details of familiar things, they should feel 
that in the writer they have found a sister 
and a friend,—one who is bound to the 
same heritage with themselves, sharing 
the same lot, and while struggling under 
much weakness of resolution, and many 
disadvantages of heart and character, is 
subject to the same hopes, and the same 
fears, both as regards this life and the 
next. 

The greatest difficulty of my task, how- 
ever, has been to me the laying bare, as it 
were, before the public eye, the privacy of 
married life—of that life whose sorrows the 
heart alone can know, and with whose joys 


it is the universal privilege of all who share: 
them, that wo strauger sliall WMtesuicddlc. 


This. difficulty, of the extent of which I 
was not fully aware before commencing the 
work, has sometimes thrown a hesitancy 
—TI had almost said a delicacy—in the 
way of writing with the strength which 
the occasion demanded; and I could not 
but feel that the subject itself was one: 
better calculated for confidential fireside: 
intercourse, than for a printed volume. 
But if then the principles it has been 
my simple aim to advocate, should meet. 
the approbation of my countrywomen, I 
would fondly hope to be associated with 
their fireside enjoyments as one whose 
highest earthly ambition would have been 
to render their pleasures more enduring, 
their hopes more elevated, and their hap- || 
piness more secure. 


Rose Hirx, February 16th, 1843. 


THE 


WIVES OF 


CHAPTER I. 


. THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE, 


In commencing a work addressed particu- 
larly to married women, it might appear a 
little out of place to devote a whole chapter 
to the subject of “thoughts before marriage,” 
did not the writer suppose it probable, that if 
married women should deem the following 
pages worthy of their notice, those who are 
about to assume the responsibility of wives, 
might feel equally curious to ascertain the 
nature of their contents. In this chapter, 
then, I would venture to recommend a few 
‘inquiries to those who have not yet passed 
the Rubicon, and with whom, therefore, it 
may not be too late to retract, if they should 
find they have not correctly calculated the 
consequences of the step they are about to 
take ; or, what is still more probable, if they 
have not coolly and impartially estimated 
their own capability for rendering it one of 
prudence and s&fety both to themselves and 
others. On the other hand, the inquiries I 
would propose, are such as, where the mind 
and character are fitly prepared for this im- 
portant change, will tend to confirm the best 
resolutions; while they will assist in detect- 
ing every latent evil which might otherwise 


lie in wait, to rise up after the season of de- 


liberation is past, like clouds in the horizon, 
which gradually spread their gloom across 
the sky, and finally obscure the sunshine of 
every future day. 

The great object to be aimed at by all wo- 
men about to enter upon the married state, 
is to examine calmly and dispassionately the 

requirements of this state; to put away all 


ENGLAND. 


personal feeling; and to be not only willing, 
but determined, to look the subject fairly in 
the face, and to see its practical bearing upon 
the interest and the happiness of those with 
whom they may be associated. 

Perhaps there never yet was a woman of: 
warm feelings, or man either, who had not, 
in early life, some vision of conjugal felicity, 
which after experience and knowledge of the 
world have failed to stamp with the impress 
of reality. Some, believing themselves capa- 
ble of contributing their share to this measure 
of earthly happiness, and disappointed in not 
finding an equal companion, have wisely 
declined entering upon the married state 
altogether; while others, more confident of 
success, have made.the experiment for them- 
selves, believing, that though all the world 
may have failed in realizing their dreams of 
bliss, they and theirs will be fortunate enough 
to exhibit to the wonder of mankind, an in- 
stance of perfect connubial happiness. | 

It is needless to decide which of these two 
parties deserve the highest meed of commen- 
dation for their prudence and common sense. 
But it is equally needless to belong to either 
class of individuals. “ What!” exclaims the 
young enthusiast, “shall we not even hope to 
be happy?” Yes. Let us hope as long as 
we can; but let it be in subservience to rea- 
son and to truth. Let us hope only to be 
happy ourselves, so long as we make others 
happy too; and let us expect no measure of | 
felicity beyond what this world has afforded || 
to those who were wiser and better than we 
are. 

“But why then,” exclaims the same en- 
thusiast, “all the fine talk we hear about 


Co OT rn Mo ee ee os Gere ate eae 


6 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


marriage? and why, in all the stories we 
‘read, is marriage made the end of woman’s 
existence?” Ah! there lies the evil. Mar- 
riage, like death, is too often looked upon as 
the end; whereas both are but the beginning 
of states of existence infinitely more import- 
ant than that by which they were preceded ; 
yet each taking from that their tone and 
character, and each proportioned in their en- 
joyment to the previous preparation which 
has been made for their happiness or misery. 

The education of young ladies is too fre- 
quently such as to lead them naturally to 
suppose, that all the training, and all the dis- 
cipline they undergo, has reference only to 
this end. The first evidence that marriage is 
thus regarded by many young women, is 
seen in a petulant rebellion against the re- 
straints of home, and the requirements of 
parental authority, accompanied by a threat, 
not always distinctly uttered, that the first 
opportunity of escaping from domestic thral- 
dom shall not be neglected. This species of 
rebellion against rightful authority, is much 
cherished by school-companions and sisters ; 
while the gossip of servants, to whom the 
indignant sufferers sometimes appeal, and 
the general tenor of what is called light read- 
ing, tend to keep up the same kind of spir- 
ited determination to rush upon the uncer- 
tainties of marriage, in the hope of escaping 
from the certainties of home. A polite and 
flattering lover next presents himself: The 
persecuted or neglected damsel finds at last 
that her merits are appreciated, and while 
the gates of an imaginary Eden are still 
open, she enters eagerly among its fruits and 
flowers, never stopping to inquire if 


“The trail of the serpent is over them still.” 


Such is the natural history of one half at 
least of those early marriages, which fix the 
doom of women for this world, and some- 
times for the next. What wonder, then, 
that a sincere and earnest friend, and an af- 
fectionate well-wisher of her sex, should 
deem it necessary, even on the near approach 
of that day which is generally spoken of as 
making two human beings happy, to request 


the weaker, and consequently the more easily 
deluded party, to pause and think again. 

Although Tam one of the last persons who 
could wish to introduce in any plausible form, 
to an upright and honorable. mind, the bare 
idea of the possibility of breaking an engage- 
ment; yet as there are cases in which an en- 
gagement of marriage, if literally kept, must 
necessarily be violated in spirit, I cannot help 
thinking, that of two evils, it is, in this case, 
especially desirable to choose the least; and 
to prefer inflicting a temporary pain, and en- 
during an inevitable disgrace, to being the 
means of destroying the happiness of a life- 
time, with the self-imposed accompaniment 
of endless remorse. : 

In the first place, then, I would ask, are 
you about to bring to the altar, and to offer, 
in the sight of God, a faithful and devoted 
heart? To answer with a mere expression 
of belief, is not sufficient here. There must 
be certainty on this point, if not on any 
other. There are many tests by which 
this important fact may be ascertained, and 
of these I shall particularize a few. 'The 
first is, whom are you loving !—the man who 
stands before you with all his “imperfections 
on his head”’—his faults of temper, follies, in- 
consistencies, and past misdeeds? Is this 
the man you love? or is it some ideal and 
perfect being whom you will fail to recognise 
in the husband of your after life? If the lat- 
ter case be yours, go back, and wait, for your || 
acquaintance has yet to be:formed on the 
only sure basis—that of honesty and truth; 
and you might as safely unite yourself with 
a being you had never seen before, as with 
one whom you had seen without having 
known or understood. 

The discovery that you have mistaken the 
real character of your lover, need not, how- 
ever, be any barrier to the ultimate fulfilment 
of your engagement with him. All that you 
have to do, is to wait until you have studied 
his real character, and ascertained that you 
can still love him, though you no longer be- 
lieve him to be without a fault. 

During the progress of this study, the de- 
lay it will necessarily occasion, may be made 


—_— 


THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 7 


to answer two valuable ends; for at the same 
time that you have been deceived, it is more 
than probable that you have been deceiving. 
Not intentionally, perhaps, yet the effect may 
be as calamitous as if you had designedly 
practised upon the partial credulity of your 
lover. It is of the utmost importance, then, 
that you inquire into the nature of your own 
conduct, not only towards him, but towards 
others in his presence. Have you, during 
the season of courtship, been acting a part 
which you never before sustained, or which 
you do not intend to sustain as a wife? 
Have you been more amiable to your ad- 
mirer, than you expect to be to your hus- 
band? If you have, there are two ways of 
remedying this evil, for an evil it certainly is; 
and one of these you are bound in common 
honesty to adopt: you must either defer 
your marriage until your real character has 
been brought to light, and clearly understood ; 
or, you must determine, from this time for- 
ward, by the Divine blessing on your endeav- 
ors, that you will be in reality the amiable 
being you have appeared. 

And now, having learned to see your lover 
as he is, | would ask again, whether you are 
quite sure that your affections are entirely 
and irrevocably his. If on this point there is 
doubt, there must be danger ; but still there 
are tests to be applied, which may in some 
| measure reduce those doubts to certainty. 
The most important question, in a case of 
doubt, is, whether your heart lingers after 
any other object; and this may be best as- 
certained by asking yourself still further, 
whether there is any other man in the world, 
of whom it would give you pain to hear that 
he was likely to be married. If there is not, 
you are in all probability safe in this respect, 
and yet you may not love the man you are 
about to marry, as he hopes, deserves, and 
believes himself to be loved. I would ask, 
then, are you weary of his presence, and re- 
lieved when he goes away? or are you dis- 
posed to exercise less charity and forbear- 
ance towards his faults, than towards the 
faults of others? for if his failings annoy and 
| irritate you more than those of men in gen- 


eral, depend upon it, you do not love him as 
you ought. If, too, you feel ashamed of him 
before marriage, there is little probability that 
you will afterwards evince towards him that 
respect and reverence which is right and 
seemly in a wife. 

In order to ascertain these points elearly, it 
is good for every woman before she marries, 
to see the man of her choice in the company 
of her friends, and especially to see him as- 
sociated and compared with those whose 
opinion she esteems most highly. “We are | 
all more or less influenced by the secret sym- | 
pathies of our common nature. In nothing | 
can we think or feel alone; and few cases — 
show more plainly the weakness and liability | 
to delusion under which we labor, than the 
strong confidence we sometimes entertain in 
the correctness of our own judgment, until 
some new trial is made; and then immedi- 
ately, as if by a kind of instinct, placing our- 
selves in the situation of others, we see as 
it were with their eyes, think with their 
thoughts, and arrive at their conclusions. 
This tendency of our nature is often discover- 
edin the reading of books, which we have both 
enjoyed and admired alone; but no sooner 
do we read them in company with a critical 
friend, than we see at once their defects, and 
can even use against them the same powers 
of criticism ourselves. Happy is it for those 
whose judgment, thus influenced, is confined 
in its exercise to books !—happy for them if 
they never know what it is to find the talents 
and the recommendations of a lover disap- 
pear in a moment, on the approach of an in- 
teresting and influential friend, and disappear 
in such a way as never to be recalled again! 


Yet, having stood this test, it is still possi- 
ble to doubt, and, without sufficient love, 
your engagement may still be only just drag- | 
ged on, because you have no sufficient plea 
for breaking it off’ You may perhaps esteem 
your lover highly ; you may feel grateful for 
his kindness, and flattered by his admiration; | 


him the happy man he believes he can be 
with you, and you alone—you may feel all 
this, and yet, I repeat, you may not love him 


you may also feel a strong desire to make | 


8 


as a woman ought to love her husband. 
This will be more clearly proved by an in- 
crease of sadness on your part, as the time 
of your marriage draws near, an indefinite 
apprehension that with you the pleasures of 
life are at an end, and a determination, re- 
quiring often to be renewed, that at least you 
will do your duty to one who deserves every 
thing from you. 

Let me, however, ask what this duty is? 
It is not merely to serve him ; a hired menial 
could do that. The duty of a wife is what 
no woman ever yet was able to render with- 
out affection; and it is therefore the height 
of presumption to think that you can coldly 
fulfil a duty, the very spirit of which is that 
of love itself. 

It is possible, however, that you may still 
be mistaken. It is possible that the gradual 
opening of your eyes from the visions of girl- 
ish romance, which are apt to flit before the 
imaginative and inexperienced, may have 
given you a distaste both for your compan- 
ion, and your future lot. If this be the case, 
the difficulty will be easily overcome by the 
exercise of a little good feeling and common 
sense. But in order to prove that this is real- 
ly all, put this question to yourself—if you 
were quite sure there was some other woman 
as amiable, or more so, than you, with whom 
your friend could be equally happy, would 
you feel pleasure in his cultivating her ac- 
quaintance instead of yours? 

If you can answer this.question in the 
negative, you may yet be safe; if not, the 
case is too decided to admit of a moment’s 
hesitation. Your own integrity, and a sense 
of justice towards your friend, equally dictate 
the propriety of making him acquainted with 
the painful, the humiliating fact, that you do 
not love him; and no man, after being con- 
vinced of this, could desire the fulfilment of 
a mere nominal engagement. 

Iam aware that the opinion of the world 
and the general voice of society are against 
such conduct, even where love is wanting ; 
and I am equally aware, that no woman 
ought to venture upon breaking an engage- 
ment on such grounds, without feeling her- 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


it must naturally engender a servile disposi- 


self humbled to the very dust; but I am not 
the less convinced, that it is the only safe, 
the only just line of conduct which remains 
to her who finds herself thus circumstanced, 
and that it is in reality more generous to her 
lover, than if she kept “the word of promise 
to his ear, and broke it to his hope.” 

But there may be other causes besides this, 
why an engagement should not be fulfilled. 
There may be a want of love on the part of 
your friend, or there may be instancés of 
unfaithfulness too glaring to be overlooked ; 
and here let it be observed, that woman’s 
love may grow after marriage—man’s, never. 
If, therefore, he is indifferent or unfaithful as 
a lover, what must be expected of him as a 
husband ? 

It is one of the greatest misfortunes to 
which women are liable, that they cannot, 
consistently with female delicacy, cultivate, 
before an engagement is made, an acquaint- 
ance sufficiently intimate to lead to the dis- 
covery of certain facts which would at once | 
decide the point, whether it was prudent to | 
proceed further towards taking that step, 
which is universally acknowledged to be the 
most important in a woman’s life. 

One of these facts, which can only be as- 
certained on a close acquaintance, is the 
tendency there is in some individuals to 
overawe, and keep others at a distance. 
Now, if on the near approach of marriage, 
a woman finds this tendency in the compan- 
ion she has chosen, if she cannot open to 
him her whole heart, or if he does not open 
his heart to her, but maintains a distant kind 
of authoritative manner, which shuts her out 
from sympathy and equality with himself, it 
is time for her to pause, and think seriously 
before she binds herself for life to that worst 
of all slavery, the fear of a husband. I have 
no scruple in using this expression, because 
where the connection is so intimate, and the 
sphere of action necessarily so confined, if 
fear usurps the place of confidence and love, 


tion to deceive, either by falsehood or eva- 
sion, wherever blame would attach to a full 
disclosure of the truth. 


THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 9 


I have already said that it is a prudent plan 
for the woman who intends to marry, to try 
the merits of her lover, or rather her own es- 
timate of them, by allowing him an opportu- 
nity of associating with her friends. Such 
precautionary measures, however, .are not 
easily carried out, except at some sacrifice of 
delicate and generous feeling ; and, generally 
speaking, the less a woman allows her name 
to be associated with that of her husband be- 
fore marriage, the better. It is sometimes 
argued that an engagement entered into with 
right feelings, is of so binding and sacred a 
nature, that persons thus related to each 
other, may be seen together, both in public 
and private, almost as if they were really 
married; and to such it may appear a cold 
kind of caution still to say “beware!” Yet 
such is the uncertain nature of all human af- 
fairs, that we need not look far for instances 
of the most improbable changes taking place, 
after all possibility of change had been ban- 
ished from our thoughts. Within a month, 
a week, nay, even a day, of marriage, there 


liave woo disvuvertes made willul Wave muie 
ly justified an entire disunion of the parties 
thus associated; and then how much better 
has it been, where their names had not been 
previously united, and where their appearance 
together had not impressed the idea of indis- 
soluble connection upon the minds of others! 

One of the most justifiable, and at the same 
time one of the most melancholy causes for 
such disunion, is the discovery of symptoms 
of insanity. Even a highly excited and dis- 
ordered state of the nervous system, will 
operate with a prudent woman against an 
alliance of this nature. Yet here again, it is 
particularly unfortunate, that in cases of ner- 
vous derangement, the discovery is seldom 
fully made except in the progress of that 
close intimacy which immediately precedes 
marriage, and which consequently assumes 
the character of an indissoluble engagement. 
Symptoms of this nature, however, when ex- 
hibited in the conduct of a man, are of the 
most serious and alarming character. A wo- 
man laboring under such maladies, in their 
milder form, may be so influenced by authori- 


ty as to be kept from doing any very exten- 
sive harm; but when a man, with the reins 
of government in his hand, loses the power 
to guide them, when his mind becomes the 
victim of morbid feeling, and his energies 
sink under imaginary burdens, there is no 
calculating the extent of calamity which may 
result to the woman who would be rash 
enough to link her destiny with his. 

Another justifiable reason for setting aside 
an engagement of marriage, or protracting 
the fulfilment of it, is a failure of health, es- 
pecially when either this, or the kind of mala- 
dy already noticed, induces an incapacity for 
business, and for the duties which generally 
devolve upon the master of a household. It 
is true, that in cases where the individual 
thus afflicted does not himself see the pro- 
priety of withdrawing from the engagement, 
the hard, and apparently selfish part a wo- || 
man has to act on these occasions is such as, 
in addition to her own sufferings, will proba- 
bly bring upon her the blame of many who 
do not, and who cannot, understand the case; 


QIU tlie LTITVULO MoMvuatc IL LOUIE aio tuWwalus 
the friend she is thus compelled to treat with 
apparent harshness, the less likely she will 
be to exculpate herself by an exposure to the 
world of his inconsistency, or his weakness. 
Thus, as in many of the acts of woman’s life, 
she has to be the sufferer every way; but 
still that suffering is less to every one con- 
cerned, than if she plunged herself into all 
the lamentable consequences of a union with 
a man who wanted either the mental or the 
physical capacity to keep her and hers from 
poverty and distress. In the former case, 
she will have the dictates of prudence and of 
conscience in her favor. In both, the world 
will be lavish of its blame; but in the latter 
only, could her portion be that of self-con- 
demnation, added to irremediable misery. 

After all these considerations have been 
duly weighed, and every test of truth and 
constancy applied to your affection for the 
object of your choice, there may yet remain | 
considerations of infinite moment as they re- | 
late to your own fitness for entering upon the 
married state. 


Fy) eae yuu TLUOWAIiy wiiipty ary 


10 


In the first place, what is it you are ex- 
pecting?—to be always flattered? Depend 
| upon it, if your faults were never brought to 
| light before, they will be so now. Are you 
expecting to be always indulged? Depend 
upon it, if your temper was never tried be- 
fore, it will be so now. Are you expecting 
to be always admired? Depend upon it, if 
you were never humble and insignificant be- 
fore, you will have to be sonow. Yes, you 
had better make up your mind at once to be 
uninteresting as long as you live, to all ex- 
cept the companion of your home; and well 
will it be for you, if you can always be inter- 
esting to him. You had better settle it in 
your calculations, that you will have to be 
crossed oftener than the day; and the part 
of wisdom will dictate, that if you persist in 
your determination to be married, you shall 
not only be satisfied, but cheerful to have 
these things so. 

One important truth sufficiently impressed 
upon your mind will materially assist in this 
desirable consummation—it is the superiority 


Eu ie 
quite possible you may have more talent, 
with higher attainments, and you may also 
have been generally more admired; but this 
has nothing whatever to do with your posi- 
tion as a woman, which is, and must be, 
inferior to his as a man. For want of a 
satisfactory settlement of this point before 
marriage, how many disputes and misunder- 
standings have ensued, filling, as with the 
elements of discord and strife, that world of 
existence which ought to be a smiling Eden 
of perpetual flowers—not of flowers which 
never fade; but of flowers which, if they 
must die, neither droop nor wither from the 
canker in their own bosoms, or the worm 
which lies at their own roots. 

It is a favorite argument with untried 
youth, that all things will come right in the 
end, where there is a sufficiency of love; but 
is it enough for the subjection of a woman’s 
will, that she should love her husband ? 
Alas! observation and experience alike con- 
vince us, that love has been well represented 
as a wayward boy; and the alternate ex- 


ue SisCriie 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


hibitions of contradiction and fondness which 
are dictated by affection alone, though inter- 
esting enough before the nuptial knot is tied, 
are certainly not those features in the aspect 
of his domestic affairs, whose combination a 
prudent man would most desire. 

It is to sound judgment then, and right 
principle, that we must look, with the bless- 
ing of the Bestower of these good gifts, for 
ability to make a husband happy—sound 
judgment to discern what is the place de- 
signed for him and for us, in the arrange- 
ments of an all-wise Providence—and right 
principle to bring down every selfish desire, 
arid every rebellious thought, to a due sub- 
serviency in the general estimate we form 
of individual duty. 


But supposing this point satisfactorily set- | 


tled, and an earnest and prayerful determina- 
tion entered into to be but a secondary being 
in the great business of conducting the gen- 
eral affairs of social life, there are a few 
things yet to be thought of, a few duties yet 
to be discharged, before the final step can 


poopeol be tabean 
thusiasm of youthful feeling, few women 


look much beyond themselves in the caleu- 
lations they make. upon their married future. 
To be loved, and cherished, is all they ap- 
pear solicitous to stipulate for, forgetting the 
many wants and wishes that will necessarily 
arise out of the connection they are about to 
form. It may not be out of place then to 
remind them, how essential it is to comfort 
in the married state, that there should have 
been beforehand a clear understanding, and 
a strict agreement, with regard both to the 
general style of living, and the friendships 
and associations to be afterwards maintained. 
All secret wishes and intentions on these 
subjects, concealed by one party from the 
fear of their being displeasing to the other, 
are ominous of future disaster; and, indeed, 
I would almost venture so far as to advise, 
that unless such preliminaries can be satis- 
factorily adjusted, the parties had better make 
up their minds to separate; for these causes of 
difference will be of such frequent occurrence, 
as to leave little prospect of domestic peace. 


. 


Tn tha wrarmth and an. 


If, however, the companion of your future 
home should not be disposed to candor on 
these points, you will probably have oppor- 
tunities of judging for yourself; and such 
means of forming your conclusions ought on 
no account to be neglected. You will pro- 
bably, for instance, have opportunies of as- 
certaining whether he is one of those who 
place their chief happiness in what is called 
good living, or, in other words, in the pleas- 
ures of the table; and if in his estimation 
wine forms a prominent part of these enjoy- 
ments, let not the fear of the world’s censure 
operate for one moment against your sepa- 
rating yourself from such a man. If this 
should seem a harsh and hasty conclusion, 
remember that the evils of a gross and self- 
indulgent habit are such as generally increase 
with the advance of years, and, as the natu- 
ral spirits fail, and health becomes impaired, 
are liable to give rise to the most fatal mala- 


| dies both of mind and body. If, then, there 


| of abstinence to the man she loves. 


is danger and disgust to apprehend on the 
side of indulgence, it is on the other hand a 
hard and unthankful duty for the wife to be 
perpetually restraining the appetite of her 
husband, and preaching up the advantages 
Nor is 


| it improbable, or of rare occurrence, that un- 


der such circumstances she should actually 
lose his affection, for men like not the con- 
stant imposition of restraint upon their wish- 
es; and so much happier—so much more 
privileged is the situation of her who can 
safely minister to the desires of her husband, 
that I would recommend to every woman to 
choose the man who can with propriety be in- 
dulged, rather than him whose habits of self- 
gratification already require restraint. 

As the time of your marriage draws near, 
you will naturally be led with ease and pleas- 
ure into that kind of unlimited confidence 
with the companion of your future lot, which 
forms in reality the great charm of married 


| life. But even here a caution is required, 


for though all the future, as connected with 
your own experience, must belong to him, 
all the past must belong to others. Never, 


therefore, make it the subject of your confi- 


THOUGHTS BEFORE = 00 


dential intercourse to relate the history of 
your former love affairs, if you have had 
any. It is bad taste to allude to them at all, 
but especially so under such circumstances ; 


and although such details might serve to , 


amuse for the moment, they would in all 
probability be remembered against you at 
sonse future time, when each day will be 


sufficientiy darkened by its own passing | 


clouds. 

With regard to all your other love affairs 
then, let “ by-gones be by-gones.” It could 
do no good-whatever for you to remember 


them; and the more you are dissociated | 
from every other being of his own sex, the || 


more will the mind of your husband dwell 
upon you with unalloyed satisfaction. On 
the other hand, let no ill-advised curiosity 
induce you to pry too narrowly into his past 
life as regards affairs of this nature. How- 


ever close your inquiries, they may still be , 
bafHled by evasion ;.and if it be an important | 


point with you, as many women profess to 
make it, to occupy an unsullied page in the 
affections of your husband, it is wiser and 
safer to take for granted this flattering fact, 
than to ask whether any other name has 
been written on that:page before. In this 
case, as well as your own, both honor and 
delicacy would suggest the propriety of draw- 
ing a veil over the past. It is sufficient for 
the happiness of married life that you share 
together the present and the future. 

With such a field for the interchange of 
mutual thought, there can surely be no want 
of interest in your conversation, for the ar- 
rangements to be made are so new to both, 
and consequenily so fraught with importance, 


that parties thus circumstanced, are pro- | 


verbially good company only to each other. 

Amongst these arrangements, if the choice 
of a residence be permitted you, and espe- 
cially if your own temper is not good, or your 
manners not conciliating, avoid, as far as 
you can do so with prudence, and without 
thwarting your husband’s wishes, any very 
close contact with his nearest relatives. 
There are not wanting numerous instances 
in which the greatest intimacy and most fa- 


i ge 


ll 
I 


12 THE WIVES 


OF ENGLAND. 


miliar associations of this kind have been 
kept up with mutual benefit and satisfaction ; 
but generally speaking it is a risk, and you 
may not yourself be sufficiently amiable to 
bear, with a meek and quiet spirit, the general 
oversight, and well-meant interference, which 
mothers and sisters naturally expect to main- 
tain in the household of a son and a brother. 
These considerations, however, must of 
course give way to the wishes of the hus- 
band and his family, as it is of the utmost 
importance not to offend his relatives in the 
outset by any appearance of contradiction or 
self-will; and besides which, he and his 
friends will be better judges than you can be, 
of the general reasons for fixing your future 
residence. 

And now, as the time draws near, are you 
quite sure that your means are sufficient to 
enable you to begin the world with indepen- 
dence and respectability? Perhaps you are 
not a judge, and if not, you have no right to 
think of becoming a wife; for young men in 


general have little opportunity of making 


themselves acquainted with household econ- 
omy ; and who then is to make those innu- 
merable calculations upon which will depend, 
not only the right government of your estab- 
lishment, but also your peace of mind, your 
integrity of character, and your influence for 
time and for eternity ? 

Oh! what a happy day would that be for 
Britain, whose morning should smile upon 
the making of a law for allowing no woman 
to marry until she had become an economist, 
thoroughly acquainted with the necessary ex- 
penses of a respectable mode of living, and 
able to calculate the requirements of comfort, 
in connection with all the probable contin- 
gencies of actual life. If such a law should 
be so cruel as to suspend for a year or more 
every approach to the hymeneal altar, it 
would, at least, be equally effectual in avert- 
ing that bitter repentance with which so 
many look back to the hurried and thought- 
less manner in which they rushed blindfold 
upon an untried fate, and only opened their 
eyes to behold their madness and folly, when 
it was too late to avert the fatal consequences. 


Asa proof how little young men in gene- 
ral are acquainted with these matters, f have 
heard many who fully calculated upon living 

.iIn a genteel and comfortable style, declare 
that a hundred pounds was sufiicient for the 
furnishing of a house. ‘Thus a hundred 
pounds on one side, either saved, borrowed, 
or begged, and fifty on the other, are not un- 
frequently deemed an ample provision, with 
a salary of two hundred, to begin the world 
with. It is true the young man finds that 
salary barely sufficient for himself; but then, 
he hears and reads how much is saved un- 
der good female management, and he doubts 
not but his deficiencies will be more than 
made up by his wife. It is true the young 
lady, with her ill health, and music lessons, 
and change of air, costs her father at least 


fifty pounds per annum, but she does not. 


see how she shall cost her husband any thing 
at all! Sweet soul! She needs so little, and 
really would be content with any thing in the 
world, so that she might but live with him. 
Nay, she who has never learned to wait upon 


herself, would almost do without a servant, | 


so self-denying, so devoted is her love. 

Thus the two hopeful parties reason, and 
should a parent or a friend advise delay, the 
simple fact of their having been engaged, 
having expected to be married, and having 
made up their minds, appear to furnish suffi- 
cient arguments why they should proceed in 
their career of rashness and of folly. Parents 
who are kindly disposed, will hardly see 
their children rush upon absolute want at 
the commencement of their married life. 
The mother therefore pleads, the father cal- 
culates, and by deferring some of his own 
payments, or by borrowing from a friend, he 
is enabled to spare a little more than was at 
first promised, though only as a loan. 

And how is this small additional sum too 
frequently appropriated? ‘'T'o the purchase 
of luxuries which the parents of the newly 
married pair waited ten or twenty years be- 
fore they thought of indulging themselves 
with ; and those who have tried every expe- 
dient, and drained every creditable source, 
to gratify the wishes of their imprudent chil- 


: 


THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 13 


dren, have to contemplate the heart-sicken- 
ing spectacle of beholding them begin the 
he in a style superior to that which their 
own industry and exertion, persevered in 
through half a lifetime, has alone enabled 
them to attain. 

Now, though the delicate young lady may 
think she has little to do with these things, 
the honest-hearted Englishwoman, especially 
the practical Christian, will find that it be- 
longs peculiarly to her province to see that 
just and right principles are made the foun- 
dation of her character as the mistress of a 
house ; and in order to carry out these prin- 
ciples so as to make them effectual in their 
operation upon her fellow-beings, and accept- 
able in the sight of God, she must begin in 


|| time, and while the choice remains to her, to 


practise self-denial, even in that act which is 
most intimately connected with her present 
and future happiness. 

If the attention to economy, and the right 
feeling with regard to integrity, which I have 
so earnestly recornmended in the “ Women,” 
and the “ Daughters of England,” have been 
studied in early youth, she will need no cau- 
tion on the subject of delaying her marriage 
until prudence shall point out the proper time 


{| for her settlement in life. She will know a 


holier, deeper kind of love than that which 
would plunge the object of it in irremediable 
difficulties for her sake ; and though he may 
be inexperienced and imprudent, she will feel 
it a sacred trust, to have committed to her 
the care of his character and circumstances 
in these important and momentous concerns. 

Serious and right views on subjects. of 
this nature, are so intimately connected with 
the reality of the Christian character, that it 
is difficult to imagine how a high profession 


| of religion can exist in connection with the 
\| kind of wilful and selfish imprudence above 
|| described. One thing, however, is certain, 


that let a woman’s religious profession be 
what it may, ifshe be rash and inconsiderate 
on the subject of marriage, consulting only 
her own gratification, and mistaking mere 
fondness for deep and enduring affection, she 
has need to go back to the school of mental 


SN SS EER ne rane nenoreeneemaN 


discipline, in which she is yet but a novice; 
and instead of taking upon herself the honor- 
able title of wife, to set in humility and self- 
abasement in the lowest seat, seeking those 
essential .endowments of mind and of heart, 
without which, the blessing of her heavenly 
Father must be expected in vain. 

Above all other considerations then, as the 
bridal day draws near, this thought will sug- 
gest itself to the serious and enlightened 
mind—What am I seeking in the great 
change Iam about to make? Am I seek- 
Ing anescape from duty to enjoyment, from 
restraint to indulgence, from wholesome dis- 
cipline to perfect ease ? 

Let us hope that these questions may be 
answered satisfactorily, and that the young 
woman now about to take upon herself the 
charge of new duties, has thoroughly weigh- 
ed the responsibility these duties will bring 
along with them; and that in an humble 
and prayerful spirit she is inquiring, in what 
way she may conduct herself; so that all the 
members of her household shall be united 


as a Christian family, strengthening and en- || 


couraging each other in the service of the 
Lord. 

In so important an undertaking, it cannot 
be deemed presumptuous to determine, with 
the Divine blessing, to begin with a high 
standard of moral excellence. Whatever 
our standard is, we never rise above it; 
and so great are the miscalculations usually 
made in a prospective view of married life, 
that one half at least of its trials, tempta- 
tions, and hindrances to spiritual advance- 
ment are entirely overlooked. Besides which, 
so much of the moral and religious charac- 
ter of a household depends upon the female 
who controls its domestic regulations, that 
the woman who should rush heedlessly into 
this situation, expecting to find it easier to 
act conscientiously than she had ever done 
before, would most likely be punished for 
her presumption by discovering, when it was 
too late, that instead of religious helps on 


every hand, she was in reality plunged into 
new difficulties, and placed in the midst of 


hindrances to her spiritual improvement, 


ae ee eS Te ea 


14 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


greater and more appalling than it had ever 
entered into her imagination to conceive. 
But still there is no need to be cast down 
even while suffering under the natural con- 
sequénces of this fearful mistake, for He who 
has said commit thy way unio the Lord, will 
assuredly be near in the time of trouble, when 
the child of sorrow, sincerely repenting of 


her blindness and her folly, shall meekly — 


and fervently implore his promised aid. She 
will then have learned to feel, that let her 
confidence in the companion of her choice 
be what it may; let him be to her as the fa- 
ther she has forsaken, the brothers she has 
left, and the friends whose sweet fellowship 
she will never more enjoy; there will still be 
trials in her lot, in which he cannot partici- 
pate, and depths in her soul which he can- 
not fathom. He may take her to his bosom 
as the shepherd takes the lamb; but the 


green pastures and the refreshing dew will | 


not be his to give. He may guard her safe- 
ty as the soldier guards the camp; but her 


| enemies may be too subtle for his eye, and 


too powerful for his arm. He may be to her 
as the morning to the opening flower; but 
the sun which gives that morning all its light, 
will be high in the heavens, and if he shines 
not, there will be no real brightness in her 
day. And all this insufficiency may still be 
felt without a shadow being cast upon her 
earthly love. Indeed, we never err more 
fatally, or do greater injustice to the nature 
and attributes both of religion and of love, 
than when we blend them together, and ex- 
pect from one what the other only can be- 
stow. If love sometimes assists us by ren- 
dering certain portions of the path of duty 
more alluring, in how many instances does 
it throw all its allurements on the opposite 
side; and in such cases, how hard it is that 
religion should be charged with the sad con- 
sequences which are liable to follow! 

I speak not here of love as what it might 
be, but as what it is. I speak not of that holy 
and seraphie ardor, which a guardian angel 
might be supposed to feel for the welfare of 
the being whose earthly course it watched 
with unceasing care; nor yet of that pure 


—— 


sentiment, scarcely less earthly in its ten- 
dency, the chastened and subordinate attach- 
ment of a redeemed and regenerated soul ; 
I speak of love as a fitful and capricious 
passion, asserting unreasonable mastery over 
the human mind, rejecting all control, mixing 
itself with all motives, assuming all forms so 
as to work out its own purposes, and never 
failing to promise an earthly paradise to its 
blind followers. 

It is of such love, I repeat, that it must be 


kept apart from that great work which reli- | 
gion has to do alone, because the strivings | 


of the spirit in its religious exercises can only 
be fully Known and appreciated by Him who 
was in all points tempted as we are; and 


because these groanings, which cannot be | 


uttered to any human ear, are mercifully 
listened to by Him who is touched with a 
feeling of our infirmities. 

It is highly important, therefore, that the 
woman who ventures to become a_ wife, 
should not be leaning upon the frail reed 
of human love for her support. Indeed, it 
is more than probable that her husband will 
himself require assistance ; and, excellent as 
he may have hitherto appeared to herself 
and others, it is equally probable that on a 
nearer inspection there will be ‘found in his 
religious character defects and inconsisten- 


cies, which will present insuperable cbstacles | 


in the way of her whose dependence has been 
solely upon him. If, however, her depend- 
ence has been rightly placed upon a higher 
foundation than that of hisnan excellence 
or human love, these defects of character 
will neither hinder nor discourage her. 'To 
work out her own salvation with fear and 
trembling, will be the great object of her life ; 
and while engaged with all her energies in 
this first duty, she will be more occupied with 
anxiety to draw others along with her, than 
with disappointment at their being less per- 
fect than she had imagined them. 

As we must all die alone, so must we live 
in our spiritual experience. 


‘‘ Not even the tenderest heart, and next our own, 
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh. 


Se en 


THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 


15 


Each in his hidden sphere of joy or wo 

Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart ; 

Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow, 

Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.” 


Human sympathy may do much to com- 
fort, human advice to guide, and human ex- 
ample to encourage ; but whether married or 
single, whether associated with others, or 
separate and alone; we must all bear our 
own burdens, perform our own duties, an- 
swer to our Own consciences, reap our own 
rewards, and receive our own sentence at the 
bar of eternal judgment. 

If this be an awful, and in some respects 
a gloomy thought, in others it is most con- 
soling; for we need in reality but one Friend 
in our religious experience. All others are 
liable to fail us in the hour of need, and at 
best they can do little for us. But with this 
Friend on our side, no one can hurt or hinder 
us. Under his protection, whatever wounds 
we receive from any mortal foe, our immor- 
tal nature will remain uninjured. This 
Friend then is all-sufficient, and, blessed be 
his holy name, he ever liveth io make interces- 
sion for us. 


——_— 
CHAPTER II. 


THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 


One great fault which the writer of these 
pages has already presumed to find with fe- 
male education, as conducted in the present 
day, is, that it fails to prepare the character, 
and to form, the habits, for those after duties, 
which are as rigorously exacted, as if the 
whole training of youth had been strictly in 
accordance with the requirements of middle 
life. 'The tone of common conversation, and 
the moral atmosphere of general society, are 
strongly tinctured with the same fault—a 
tendency to encourage thoughts and feelings, 
wholly at variance with the line of conduct 
pointed out by religion, and even by common 
sense, as that which is most likely to be con- 
ducive to ultimate happiness. 

But in no other circumstance of life is this 


a 


want of prospective discipline at once so ob- 
vious, and so lamentable, as in the whole 
progress of that system of self-recommenda- 
tion which men call courtship, and which 
unquestionably deserves that name, if to win 
the partial favor of an inexperienced, and 
perhaps a vain woman, be the only object 
they have in view. It is true, that the man 
who wishes to gain the affections of a woman, 
must first endeavor to render himself agreea- 
ble to her; but all I would ask is, that while 
endeavoring to gain her love, he should at 
the same time take some pains to make her 
worthy of his own, by treating her at deast’ 
with the faithfulness and sincerity of a friend. 
Nor need he fear that he shall be a loser in 
the end by this mode of treatment, for how 
much greater is the flattery of being loved in 
spite of our faults, than of being supposed to 
have none! | . 

If men would, then, in common honesty, 
state what points they object to in the woman 
they admire, and what they really do require 
in a wife, they would not only find their in- 
fluence, during the season of courtship, pro- 
ductive of the most beneficial consequences, | 
but they would themselves escape a world of 
disappointment afterwards, while they would 
save the object of their affections all that as- 
tonishment, and wounded feeling, which nat- 
urally arise out of finding herself convicted 
of innumerable faults which were never so 
much as hinted at before. 

Instead of the candid and generous treat- 
ment here recommended, how often is the 
progress of courtship no better than a system 
of fulsome adulation, and consequently of 
falsehood, carried on exactly as if marriage 
was indeed the end, instead of the beginning, 
of their mutual existence. And thus the 
affair goes on—nay, it becomes even worse, 
until the near approach of that day which is 
to make them one; for friends and relatives 
now take the same tone, and the bride elect 
is set apart from all domestic discipline, the 
recipient of flattering attentions, the object of 
universal interest, and the centre towards 
which all calculations and all expressions of 
kindness equally tend. 


16 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


Persons sometimes appear least selfish 
when their self-love is fully and freely grati- 
fied ; because they have then nothing left to 
require or to complain of. Thus the bride 
elect always appears amiable, because every- 
body waits upon her, everybody flatters her, 
and everybody promotes the gratification of 
her wishes to the utmost of their power. 
There is now no self-denial, no giving place 
to others, no privation of the expected means 
of enjoyment-—or, to sum up all in one word, 
there is no neglect to try her selfishness, or 
put her meekness to the test. How should 
she. be otherwise than amiable ? 

In this manner time passes on, self being 
made daily more and more the object of uni- 
versal attention, until at last, the bride be- 
comes personally almost an idol, so lavish is 
the expenditure bestowed upon her now, 
compared with what it has ever been before; 
so attractive, so becoming, is every ornament 
she wears ; and so lively is the interest, so 
‘profound the respect, with which she is 
treated on that eventful day, which dawns 
upon her departure from her parents’ home. 

Far be it from me to attempt to divest that 
day of its solemn and important character, 
or to lower the tone of feeling with which it 
ought to be regarded ; but as a lover of truth, 
and a somewhat studious observer of the 
days which follow, I own I should like to see 
the preparation of a bride consist more of 
mental discipline than of personal adorn- 
ment—more of the resources of a well-stored 
understanding, already thoroughly informed 
on the subjects of relative position and prac- 
tical duty ; and with these, the still higher or- 
nament of a chastened spirit, already imbued 
with a lively consciousness of the deep re- 
sponsibilities devolving upon a married wo- 
man. After such a preparation, there would 
be no unwelcome truth to reveal, no unex- 
pected reproof to endure. To fall short of 
the high standard of excellence in almost 
every act, and not always to be graciously 
forgiven, would be a matter of calculation, 
which, with true Christian meekness, she 
would be prepared to meet; while to set 
aside all selfish considerations, and to look 


almost exclusively to the happiness of others 
for her own, would already have become so 
habitual as to require no new effort to carry 
out through the intercourse of daily life. 

Happy, and wise as well as happy, would 
that man be, who should make himself con- 
tent to wait for the dawning of his bridal day, 
until the woman of his choice should have 
been thus prepared. But instead of this, | 
man eagerly secures his prize; and, like the 
training of a snared bird, that discipline must 
all come afterwards, which is to end in do- 
mestic harmony, or domestic strife. 

But let us turn the page, and after wel- 
coming home the happy couple from the 
wedding tour, let us venture to whisper into 
the ear of the bride a few sage words, from 
which, whether properly prepared or not, she 
may possibly, from the simple fact of her in- 
experience, be able to gather something for 
her future good. | 

If ever, in the course of human life, inde-. 
cision may be accounted a merit rather than 
a defect, it is so in the conduct of a young 
and newly married woman. While every 
circumstance around her is new and untried, 
the voice of prudence dictates caution before 
any important step is taken, either with re- 
gard to the formation of intimacies, or the 
general style and order of living. A warm- 
hearted, dependent, and affectionate young 
woman, ardently attached to her husband, 
will be predisposed to lean upon the kindness 
of his relatives, and even to enter rashly into 
the most intimate and familiar intercourse 
with them. But even this amiable impulse 
should be checked by the remembrance, that 
in all such intimacies, it is much more diffi- 
cult to recedé than to advance, and that when 
familiar intimacy is once established, there is 
no such thing as drawing back without per- 
sonal affront. It will happen, too, unless the 
husband’s relatives are something more than 
human, that among themselves there will not 
be perfect unanimity of feeling. They will 
probably be divided into little parties, in which 
individuals on one side will look with partial 
or censorious eyes upon the sayings and do- 
ings of those on the other. Such partial 


THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 


A Mee bs 


views, when they give a tone to general con- 
versation, are very infectious, and a sensitive 
mind much interested, and keenly alive to 
impressions from such a quarter, will be but 
too likely to become suddenly and powerfully 
biased by the same prejudices which pervade 
the circle into which the youthful bride is 
introduced. 

Nothing, however, can be more injudicious 


| than for her to take part in these family 


matters. If possible, she ought to wait and 
see for herself, before her opinion is formed 
upon any of the subjects in question. And 
this, by great care, may be done without any 
violation of that respectful behavior which 
she ought to lay down for herself as a rule, 
in associating with her husband’s relatives, 
and from which she ought never to deviate, 
let her opinion of their merits and attractions 
be what it may. 

It is sometimes supposed that the main- 
tenance of personal dignity is incompatible 
with this exercise of respect towards others. 
But on no subject do young people make 
greater mistakes, than on that of dignity. 
True dignity must always be founded upon 
a right understanding of our own position in 
society; for the presumption which would 
assume what properly belongs to another, 
and what in no way appertains to the indi- 
vidual who makes this lamentable mistake, 
is as far removed from dignity, as from right 
feeling and common sense. As a wife, then, 
a woman may be always dignified, though, 
simply as a woman, she may:at the same 
time be humble, and as a Christian self. 
abased. As a wife—as the chosen companion 
of an honorable and upright man, it is her 
duty so to regulate her whole conduct, that 
she shall neither offend others, nor bring of- 
fence upon herself; and this is never more 
effectually done, than by standing aloof from 
family disputes, and taking no part either in 
the partialities or the prejudices of those 
with whom she is associated. 

It is perfectly consistent with personal dig- 


| nity, that a wife should in all respects be the 
| mistress of her own house. 
| husband’s relations have been accustomed to 


If, therefore, the 


SS 


take part in his domestic concerns, it is high- 
ly important that they should do so no long- 
er. Correct-minded persons will need no 
hint of this kind from the wife herself. Such 
persons will be sufficiently aware, that the 
interior of her establishment must be kept 
sacred to her alone; and that, while the 
greatest freedom is maintained both in ask- 
ing and in granting favors, there must be no 
intrusion on their part into the mysteries of 
the kitchen, the store-room, or the pantry, 
without an invitation from the mistress, ei- 
ther expressed or implied. 

Should there be wanting in the husband’s 
relatives this peculiar kind of delicacy of feel- 
ing, it will be necessary to devise some plan 
calculated not to offend, by which they may 
be made to understand that you do not wish 
them, in your ewn house, entirely to share all 
things in common ; for let the degree of kind- 
ness on both sides be what it may, your edu- 
cation and theirs will in all probability have 
been so different, that circumstances must 
necessarily arise, calculated to draw forth re 
marks which cannot always be acceptable ; 
and it is therefore your wisest plan, to draw 
the line of demarcation on the side of safety. 

Nor is it necessary that in thus asserting 
your rights, suspicion should be awakened 
of any want of kindly feeling. To obviate all 
chance of this, it would be wise to take ad- 
vantage of the advice of your husband’s rela- 
tives in all cases where they are willing to 
give, and where you are prepared to adopt 
it; and, at the same time, to be careful that 
an excess of kindness should accompany 
that uncompromising defence of your own 
dignity, which every woman has a right to 
make. No room will then be left for com- 
plaint, and you will enjoy the satisfaction of 
showing your husband how highly you es. 
teem his relatives, and how much you are 
prepared to serve and to oblige them for his 
sake. . 


It is a painful fact, and one of vulgar noto- 
riety, that all eyes are fixed upon a bride, 
some to see how she is dressed, others to ob- 
serve how she behaves, and not a few to as- 
certain, as far as they are able, whether she 


— 


pe 
Qh 


has come from a respectable home, or, in 
other words, whether she has raised herself 
in worldly circumstances by the connection 
she has made. This exercise of idle and 
impertinent curiosity might appear a little too 
contemptible to be met with any kind of con- 
sideration, were it not the interest of a mar- 
ried woman to impress her new relations 
with an idea of her previous importance, and 
her unquestionable claims to respect. Even 
servants are much influenced by this impres- 
sion, and it was, therefore, a prudent plan 
adopted by our grandmothers, and still kept 
up in some parts of England, for the bride to 
go well appointed to her husband’s home, 
well supplied with a store of good household 
linen, and with abundance of such clothes as 
are not likely to become useless by being un- 
fashionable. These things are accustomed 
to be discussed among servants and depend- 
ants. From one little circle of kitchen or 
laundry gossip, they extend to another; and 
well if they do not find their way through 
the same channel to the parlor fireside ; well, 
if the humiliating remark is never made 
there, that the bride left every thing of im- 
portance to be purchased with her husband’s 
money. 

Although it may seem rather an ungra- 
cious sort of warning, thus to prepare the 
young bride for a kind of critical inspection 
scarcely consistent with kind and generous 
feeling, it is nevertheless necessary in such a 
world as ours, to calculate upon much which 
the external aspect of society would scarcely 
lead us to expect. Yet we must not for this 
reason forget the many instances in which the 
most sincere and cordial kindness is called 
forth on the part of the husband’s relatives, 
when they welcome to her new home one 
who is literally received into the bosom of 
their family, and cherished as a lamb of their 
own ‘old. 

In the majority of cases, too, it happens 
that the bride is no stranger, that her family 
and her husband’s have been in habits of in- 
timacy, and that the admission of this new 
link is but the strengthening of that intimacy 
into more enduring and affectionate union on 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


both sides. In both these cases, the bride 
has much to console and to support her in 
the duties she has undertaken; and a young 
heart can scarcely fail to feel impressed with 
gratitude for this voluntary offering of a new 
and lasting home, with all its kindred as- 
sociations of parents, brothers, sisters, and 
friends. 


If, on the one hand, it is not only lawful | 


but expedient to endeavor to maintain that 
dignity which properly belongs to a married 
woman; on the other, it is necessary to act 
with the most scrupulous regard to that mi- 
nute and delicate line, beyond which dignity 
degenerates into a mere assumption of im- 
portance. It is unquestionably an honorable 
distinction to be the chosen companion of an 
enlightened and good man; but we must not 
forget, that nature never yet formed any wo- 
man too destitute of attractions, or sent her 
forth into the world too meanly endowed, for 
her to be chosen as a wife. The dignity de- 
rived from marriage can, therefore, only be 
a reflected one; and has nothing whatever 


to do with the merits or the capabilities of | 


the married woman. 

I once heard a newly married lady com- 
plaining in company with great vehemence 
of something which had been said to her by 
a single sister, and concluding many of her 
sentences with this remark—* All that Miss 
B— said was, I dare say, sensible enough ; 
but I, you know, am married’’—as if that 
alone had been sufficient to give weight to 
the scale in which good sense, and almost 
every other good quality, appeared to be 
wanting. 

In no part of the conduct of the bride will 
keen eyes be more scrutinizing than here. 
The husband’s relatives especially will be 
ready to detect the least assumption of supe- 
riority to themselves. If, therefore, there has 


been any difference of rank or station in fa- 
vor of the bride, she will act most wisely as 
regards herself, and most generously as re- 
gards her husband, oy keeping every sign or | 
evidence of her having filled a more exalted 
station entirely out of sight. 

All her eccentricities, too, must share the 


THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 


same fate, at least, until her new relations 
shall have learned to love her well enough to 
| tolerate them for her sake. At first there 
will be no such charitable feeling extended 
towards those peculiarities of character with 
which they cannot sympathize, perhaps be- 
cause they cannot understand them. She 
must now be judged of by a new rule. Sin- 
gularities of manner, scarcely perceived at 
home, or kindly borne with as a necessary 
part of individuality, will now appear not 
only glaring, but inconsistent and absurd. 
Faults of temper, too long, and perhaps too 
leniently indulged, will now be met with op- 
position, and have the necessity of their ex- 
istence called in question; while all those 
little playful sallies of local wit or humor, 
which were wont to fill up the blanks of 
social life, may possibly be heard without a 
smile, or wondered at as unmeaning, and in 
bad taste. 

It is unquestionably the best policy then for 
a bride to be in all things the opposite of ec- 
centric. Her character, if she have any, 
will develop itself in time; and nothing can 
be gained, though much may be lost, by ex- 
hibiting its peculiarities before they are likely 
to be candidly judged or rightly understood. 
In being unobtrusive, quiet, impartially polite 
to all, and willing to bend to circumstances, 
consists the great virtue of a bride; and 
though to sink, even for a short time, into an 
apparent nonentity, may be a little humbling 
to one who has occupied a distinguished place 
amongst her former friends, the prudent wo- 
man will be abundantly repaid, by being thus 
enabled to make her own observations upon 
the society and the circumstances around 
her, to see what pleasant paths she may with 
safety pursue, or what opportunities are likely 
to open for a fuller development of her pow- 
ers, either natural or acquired. 

With regard to the duties of charity, and 
indeed of kindness in general, the cordial re- 
ception a bride usually meets with, the inter- 
est she has so recently excited, and the fa- 
vorable aspect worn by every thing around 
her, naturally inspire in her mind so much 
that is agreeable in return, and awaken on 


19 


her part so many feelings of kindness and 
good-will, that she becomes more than usu- 
ally anxious to manifest her benevolence, 
even towards persons, who, under less favor- 
able circumstances, would have excited no 
interest whatever. 

Those who make it their business to check 
such feelings, have a hard and ungrateful 
duty to perform ; and yet, where the founda- 
tion of such acts of benevolence as are thus 
performed, is feeling only, the danger is, that 
a system of behavior will be rashly adopted, 
which the emotions of after life will not be 
sufficiently powerful consistently to maintain ; 
and the consequences of such falling off will 
necessarily be, that the sorrowful or the indi- 
gent will have to endure a degree of disap- 
pointment or neglect, for which they were 
but little prepared. | 

There can be neither injustice nor unkind- 
ness in not listening, in the first instance, to 
claims which you are not able to satisfy ; but 
there is cruelty—absolute cruelty, in with- 
drawing your attention and interest from per- 


sons who have learned to look to you for | 


sympathy and cordial feeling, and in refusing 
your assistance to those who have learned to 
look to you for support. As each person 
can only satisfy a certain number of claims, 
it follows as a necessary consequence, that 
by engaging at once in too many, some, or 
perhaps all, must in the end be suffered to 
fall into neglect. 

The first year of married life may justly be 
regarded as not likely to present one half of 
the claims upon individual or household char- 
ity which will follow in the second and the 
third ; would it not, therefore, be wise to lay 
by against a future day, a little fund or store 
for this purpose? and by always keeping 
something in hand to be appropriated to 
charitable uses alone, there can be no sur- 
prise when the payment of a bill is due, to 
find that part of the amount has already been 
given to relieve a family in distress, and that 
the payment of the whole must therefore be 
deferred. All such miscalculations, and falling 
short of funds as these, cannot be too scru- 
pulously guarded against; for not only is 


—_ 


OS 
oo a a en RTT 
ss = i ee 
a et at nn 


asa ie mens 


20 


their influence bad, as they operate against 
the prompt discharge of pecuniary debts, but 
their tendency is equally to be feared, as they 
often warp the mind from its benevolent and 
kindly purposes, by a frequent repetition of 
regret that sums have becn thoughtlessly ex- 
pended in charity, which ought to have been 
otherwise employed. 

And here I would observe, that the less 
we are induced by circumstances to grudge 
our past charities, or regret our past kind- 
ness, the better it is for our own hearts, and 
for the general tone and temper of our minds. 
Indeed, where acts of charity are performed 
with right motives, not for the applause of 
men, or even for the satisfaction of having 
done a good deed, or brought about a good 
end; but simply from a love to God, and in 
obedience to his commands, there can be no 
such thing as looking back with regret to the 
act itself, whatever its consequences may be. 
He who has commanded us to visit the fa- 
therless and the widow in their affliction, has 
not given us more than human penetration to 
judge of the exact amount of their necessi- 
ties, or their deserts. If, therefore, we have 
erred, it has only been in the proportion, or 
the application, of our bestowments. ‘The 
act of giving remains as much a duty as 
ever, and to her who has learned to look 
upon the good things of this life as only lent 
to her for a brief season of trial, this sacred 
duty will be found connected with the highest 
enjoyments of which, in our present state of 
existence, we are capable. 

But in order to enjoy the luxury of giving 
with the greatest zest, it is highly important 
that we attend to the strict rules of economy. 
I have already written much, and would that 
others would write more, and better, on this 
subject ; for until we can separate in the 
minds of young women their favorite idea 
of lavish expenditure, from that of generos- 


| ity, there is little good to be expected from 


the Wives of England, and little happiness 
to be looked for in their far-famed homes. 
Would that philanthropists of every descrip- 
tion then, would give their attention to this 
subject in detail, and lay it before the public 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


nner UEITEInInIEIIEEnEIEnEIEINEEREEEREERIEREEEEEREEIEE 


in a manner that would render it intelligible 
to the female part of the community; while, 
communicated through them, it would find 
its way to every house and every cottage 
in our land—not that economy which would 
lead to a useless hoarding up of money, but to 
the glorious object of effecting the greatest pos- 
sible amount of good with the smallest means. 

Until this most refined and delicate art is 
made systematically a part of female educa- 
tion, we must look to that stern teacher expe- 
rience, toshow us, late in life, what might have 
been accomplished by a combination of econo- 
my with kindness, had we but begun the study 
of this delightful art in time. We must look 
to the items that have been absolutely wasted, | 
in almost every thing we have had to do, for 
want of being acquainted with a better mode 
of doing it; and, adding these together, we 
must look to the helpless and the destitute, 
and see what an amount of suffering might 
have been relieved by our economy, if through 
a long lifetime we had turned every thing com- 
mitted to our care, or granted for our use, to 
the best possible account. But we must look 
beyond this. Yes, we must look with blush- 
ing and confusion of face to that want of 
moral rectitude which rendered us worse 
than ignorant of the mischief we were doing 
—to that culpable and degrading apathy—that 
recklessness of all responsibility with which we 
conducted our domestic and personal affairs, 
regardless of each item wasted, until the whole 
became a mighty and fearful mass of evidence 
against us, perpetually reminding us, through 
the medium of our penurious charities, our 
scanty means, and our apprehensions of the 
fearful reckoning of each coming day—re- 
minding us by these humiliating remembran- 
cers of what we have lost beyond all possi- 
bility of recovery. 

I am not, however, one of those who would 
recommend the sacrifice either of comfort or 
respectability for the sake of economy. A 
certain air of comfort, a certain degree of re- 
spectability, regulated by the sphere in which 
the parties move, should never be lost sight 
of by the mistress of a house. More espe- 
cially, there should be no meanness behind 


THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 


21 


the scenes, to support an unwarrantable dis- 
play in public. There is a moral degradation 
in such meanness wherever it exists; and 
those persons who have habitually to hide 
themselves, or to conceal their dinner-table, 
when a guest approaches, must be living 
either above or below the line which strict 
integrity would point .out to be observed— 
they must either be making a figure at other 
times, and in other places, which they are 
not able consistently to support ; cr they must 
| be dressing and living beneath that standard 
of respectability which properly belongs to 
their character and station. 

In order to proportion all these matters 
fairly, the bride must be content to wait un- 
til time and experience shall have brought to 
light her true position, and her actual means. 
The first year of married life will probably 
be less expensive than the second, and the 
second less so than the third. Her house- 
hold furniture, and her own clothing, being 
good and new, there can be little wanted for 
repairs; and, therefore, in her domestic ex- 
penditure, as well as in her charities, this 
year will afford no true criterion of the claims 
she must afterwards expect. 

It is, perhaps, owing to this fallacious ap- 
pearance in their domestic affairs, that so 
many inexperienced persons are led on to 
purchase first one article of luxury or indul- 
gence, and then another, even after their bet- 
} ter judgment had dictated that such things 
should be done without; and thus, because 
they did not find housekeeping at first so ex- 
pensive as they had anticipated, they have 
launched out into extravagance which they 
have had bitterly to regret. Such persons are 
apt to say, “there can be no loss in furniture, 
each article will always sell for its full value— 
there can be no waste in silver, because it, 
is easily got rid of for the price of its own 
weight.” But what absurdity is this! As 
if, after having made a certain figure before 
the world, and in society, it was as easy to 
retreat and sink into a lower grade, as it is 
to sell a sofa, or a silver fork. Why, this 
very act of assuming a certain position, and 
this very dread of falling back, is what the 


whole world is striving about at this very 
hour. It is what so many heads are calcu- 
lating upon, what so many hands are work- 
ing out, and what so many hearts are beat- 
ing for. Whether we look at the wear-and- 
tear of mental and animal life in our great 
cites, our ships upon the ocean, our laborers 
on the land, our congregated thousands pent 
up in heated rooms, and our miners digging 
in the bowels of the earth; or whether we 
turn the page of man’s history, and looking 
at the inner movements of this great prin- 
ciple, behold him in his moments of unrest, 
note down the fluttering of his ambitious 
hopes, the agony of his suspense, his disap- 
pointment or his triumph, it is all the effect 
of one great cause, and that the strongest 
and most universal which prevails in highly 
civilized communities—a desire to keep ad- 
vancing in the scale of society, and a dread 
of falling back from the position already held. 

Let us then at least talk common sense ; 
and in doing this, I would advise the newly 
married woman to look at things in general 
as they really are, not as they might be. She 
will then see, that nothing is more difficult to 
human nature, than to come down even one 
step from any height it has attained, whether 
imaginary or real. If, therefore, the ap- 
pearance a young couple make on their first 
outset in life be eve1 so little beyond their 
means, so far from their being willing to re- 
duce their appearance or style of living to a 
lower scale, they will ever afterwards be per- 
plexed by devices, and harassed by endeav- 
ors, to maintain in all respects the appear- 
ance they have so imprudently assumed. 


| This perpetua: straitness and inadequacy of 


means to effect the end desired, is of itself 
sufficient to poison the fountain of domestic 
concord atits source. Itisbad enough to have 
innumerable wants created in our own minds 
which our utmost efforts are unequal to satis- 
fy; but it is worse, as many thousands can 
attest, in addition to this, for the husband 
and the wife to be perpetually disputing at 
their own fireside, about what expenses can 
be done without, and what cannot. Yet all 
these consequences follow, and worse, and 


| 29 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


more calamitous than tongue or pen can de- 
scribe, from the simple fact of having begun 
a new establishment on too expensive a scale. 

It may seem like a fanciful indulgence of 
morbid feeling, but I own my attention has 
often been arrested in the streets of London, 
by a spectacle which few ladies would stop to 
contemplate—a pawnbroker’s shop. And I 
have imagined I could there trace the grad- 
ual fall from these high beginnings, in the 
new hearth-rug scarcely worn, the gaudy 
| carpet with its roses scarcely soiled, the 
|| flowery tea-tray, and, worst of all, the bride’s 
| white veil. What a breaking-up, I have 
thought, must. there have been of some lit- 
tle establishment, before the dust of a single 
twelvemonth had fallen on its hearth !— 
|. these articles perhaps disposed of to defray 
| the expenses of illness, or to satisfy the very 
creditors of whom they were obtained on 
| trust. 

Now, though I imagine myself to be ad- 
dressing a class of persons far removed from 
all liabilities of this kind, yet, proportioned to 
their higher respectability, is their greater 
influence ; and just so far as that influence is 
on the side of prudence and economy, will 
their example operate beneficially upon the 
classes beneath them. 

It seems to be the nature of evil universal- 
ly to diffuse itself, by rendering one wrong 
action almost necessary to another. Thus no 
human being can say, “I will commit this 
particular sin, and go no further.’ Most 
especially is this the case with every kind 
of deception, just as one wilful deviation 
from truth draws after it a long train of false- 
hood. Every deviation from the line of in- 
tegrity, is followed by the same inevitable 
consequences, and thus where persons have 
made up their minds to exhibit before the 
world a style of dress, or a mode of living, 
beyond what their circumstances are able 
consistently to support, an endless train of 
meanness, artifice, and practical falsehood, is 
almost sure to follow. How much better is 
it then, to begin the world with an honest 
heart and a clear conscience, as regards 
these points of duty, and neither to carry on 


behind the scenes a disgraceful system of ex- |} 
tracting from comfort what extravagance de- 
mands, nor of exhibiting at first a transient 

display of luxury or pomp, to be repented of 

for the remainder of life. 

All this, however, requires some self-denial, 
much principle, and much love. It requires 
self-denial, because while almost all the 
world is progressing at this rate, to assume a 
plainer and more simple mode of living | 
necessarily brings with it a suspicion of || 
being unable to live differently. It requires | 
principle, because temptations present them- | 
selves on every hand to purchase what we 
wish for at less than its apparent value; and 
it requires love, because with true and deep | 
affection, the wife is so bound up in the inte- 
rests of her husband, that all things become 
light in comparison with his temporal and |} 
eternal good. Love, therefore, is admirably ] 
calculated to lessen all privations arising | 
from a conscientious adherence to strict integ- 
rity on these points. 

Nothing shows more plainly the mistake | 
under which people in general labor, with | 
regard to the degree of mental and moral 
capability requisite in a really good wife, than 
the common expression used to describe a 
merely well-disposed and ignorant female, 
when it is said of her, that she is “a good 
sort of body, and will make an excellent 
wife.” The generality of men, and even 
some of the most intelligent amongst them, 
appear peculiarly disposed to make the expe- 
riment of marrying such women, as if the 
very fact of their deficiency in moral disci- 
pline, and intellectual power, was of itself a 
recommendation rather than otherwise, in | 
the mistress of a family; and until women 
shall really find themselves neglected by the 
loftier sex, and actually consigned to oblivion, 
because they are indolent, selfish, or silly, it 
is to be feared that books may be multiplied 
on this subject, and even sermons preached, 
with little or no effect. 

Still there is surely something in the deep 
heart of woman capable of a nobler ambition 
than that of merely securing as a husband 
the man she most admires. To make that || 


— 


THE FIRST YEAR 


husband happy, to raise his character, to 
give dignity to his house, and to train up 
his children in the path of wisdom—these 
are the objects which a true wife will not 
rest satisfied without endeavoring to attain. 
And how is all this to be done without re- 
flection, system, and self-government? Sim- 
ply to'mean well, may be the mere impulse 
of a child or an idiot; but to know how to 
act well, so as that each successive kind im- 
pulse shall be made to tell upon the welfare 
and the happiness of others, is the highest 


| lesson which the school of moral discipline 


can teach. 
Nor is it only by the exercise of a high or- 
der of talent that this branch of wisdom can 


be attained. It is by using such talent as we 


have, by beginning early to observe and to 
think, to lay down rules for self-discipline, 
and to act upon them, so that in after years 
they shall have become too familiar and habi- 
tual to require an effort to maintain. Thus 
it is unquestionably better that the great 
work of mental discipline should be com- 
menced after marriage, than not at all; but 
the woman who delays this work until that 
time, is not much wiser than the man who 
should have to learn to walk after he had en- 
gaged to run a race. 

Already, even in the first year of married 
life, all the previously formed habits a woman 
has indulged, begin to tell upon a larger 
scale than they could have done in her sin- 
gle state. The art of economizing time may 
now be made to yield a mine of wealth, be- 
yond what riches alone could ever have be- 
stowed; and of this most precious treasure, 
neither change of fortune, nor place, nor cir- 
cumstance, will be able to deprive her. If 
that cleverness which I have attempted to 
describe in a previous work* has been ac- 
quired and practised in her early years, it 
will now have become like a part of her na- 
ture—an additional faculty, which is really 
nothing less than the power of turning every 
thing to the best account; and this power 
she will now be able to exercise at will, for 


* The Daughters of England. 


OF MARRIED LIFE. 93 


the benefit of all with whom. she is asso- 
ciated. 
“ But of what use,” some may be inclined 


to ask, “is her learning and her knowledge, | 


now that the actual work of the hand has 
become a duty of such important considera- 
tion?’ I answer, that-the early attainment 
of learning and knowledge will be found of 
more than tenfold importance now; because, 
in the first place, there will be no longer time 
for their acquisition; and in the next, they 
will be wanted every day, if not in their di- 
rect, in their relative exercise, to raise the 
tone of social intercourse around the domes- 
tic hearth. 

Music, painting, and poetry, taste, tact, and 
observation, may all be made conducive to 
the same desirable end; for if by the mar- 
riage vow, you hoped to unite yourself to an 
immortal mind—and I cannot believe of my 
country women that more grovelling thoughts 
would be theirs at that solemn hour—you 
must desire to sustain and cherish such a 
mind, in all its highest aspirations, and in all 
its noblest aims. In fact, 1 know not what 
love is, if it seeks not the moral and intellec- 
tual perfection of its object——if it is not willing, 
in order to promote this glorious purpose— 


“'To watch all time, and pry into all space ;” 


so that no opportunity may be lost, and no 
means neglected, of raising the tone of a hus- 
band’s character to the highest scale which 
man is capable of attaining. It is true, that 
to comfort and sustain the body is a duty 
which ought never to be neglected; but the 
woman whocanrest satisfied with this, knows 
little of the holy and elevating principal of 
real love—of that love which alone can jus- 
tify any one in taking upon herself the sacred 
responsibilities of a wife. 

Influenced by this love, the woman of right 
feeling will perceive, though but recently mar- 
ried, that her position is one of relative import- 
ance; that however insignificant each sepa- 
rate act of her life might have been when she 
dwelt alone, or as an inferior member of a 
family, she has now become the centre of a 
circle of influence, which will widen and ex- 


SESS ST ETE eT 


p= 


tend itself to other circles, until it mixes with 
the great ocean of eternity. Thus, it is not 
only what she says and does, but also what 
she leaves unsaid and undone, which will 
give a coloring to futurity, so far as the in- 
fluence of a wife extends; for to have neg- 
lected acts of duty, or opportunities of advice 
and encouragement, is in reality to incur the 
risk of consequences as calamitous as those 
} which follow having spoken unwisely, or 
| acted from improper motives. 

It is a serious and alarming thought, but 
} one which ought to be ever present with the 
young wife, that no servant can leave her 
establishment without being either better or 
worse for her experience there ; that no party 
can meet beneath her roof without receiving 
| some good or evil bias from the general tone 
of her conversation and manners; and above 
all, that the rules she lays down for the regu- 


|| tice and integrity, of benevolence, temperance, 
ll order, and Christian charity, which are there 
acted upon, will diffuse themselves through 
the different members of her household, and, 
flowing thus through various channels, will 
become the foundation of peace and comfort 
in other families, they in their turn dissemi- 
nating the same principles to the end of time. 

What a sublime—what an elevating 
thought! May it fill the happy bosom of 
every English bride, and may the closing re- 
solution of the first year of her married life 
be this—* Let others do as they will, but as 
for me and my house, we will serve ihe Lord.” 


CHAPTER III. 


CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. 


| In approaching this part of my subject, I 
cannot but feel that it is one which I have 
neither the understanding nor the skill to 
treat with ample justice. All I will venture 
upon, therefore, is to point out a few of those 
peculiarities, which women who have been 
but little accustomed to the society of men, 


lation of her household, the principles of jus- 


24 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


might otherwise be surprised to find in a hus- 
band. If, in pursuance of this task, what I 
am compelled to say, should appear in any 
way disparaging to the dignity of men in 
general, my apology must be this—that it is 
the very peculiarities Iam about to point out, 
which constitute the chief difficulties a mar- 
ried woman has to contend with, and which, 
therefore, claim the sympathy of such as are 
anxious to assist her in the right performance 
of her duties as a wife.. 

Were all men excellent, without inconsis- 
tencies, and without defects, there would-be 
no need for words of caution or advice ad- 
dressed to the weaker sex, but especially to 
wives, for each would have perpetually be- 
fore her, a perfect model of true excellence, 
from which she would be ashamed to differ, 
and by which she would be taught at once 
to admire and imitate whatever is most wor- 
thy of esteem. With gratitude we ought to 
acknowledge our belief, that morally and spir- 
itually there is perfect equality between men 
and women; yet, in the character of a noble, 
enlightened, and truly good man, there is a 
power and a sublimity, so nearly approach- 
ing what we believe to be the nature and, ca- 
pacity of angels, that as no feeling can ex- 
ceed, so no language can describe, the degree 
of admiration and respect which the contem- 
plation of such a character must excite. To 
be permitted to dwell within the influence of 
such a man, must be a privilege of the high- 
est order; to listen to his conversation, must 
be a perpetual feast; but to be permitted into 
his heart—to share his counsels, and to be 
the chosen companion of his joys and sor- 
rows !—it is difficult to say whether humility 
or gratitude should preponderate in the feel- 
ings of the woman thus distinguished and 
thus blest. 

If ail men were of this description, these 
pages might be given to the winds. We 
must suppose, however, for the sake of 
meeting every case,-and especially the most 
difficult, that there are men occasionally 
found who are not, strictly speaking, noble, 
nor highly enlightened, nor altogether good. 
That such men are as much disposed as 


CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. 


their superiors to enter into the married 
state, is also a fact of public notoriety, and 
it is to the women who venture upon uniting 
themselves to such men for life, that I would 
be understood chiefly to address myself. 

In order to render the subject more clear, 
I will in the first place draw an imaginary 
line between reasonable, and unreasonable, 
men. <A reasonable man is one who will 
give a candid hearing to arguments against 
his own preconceived opinions, and who, 
when he believes himself to have good cause 
for acting or thinking as he does, is yet will- 
ing to be shown a better cause for acting or 
thinking differently. 'The mind of a reason- 
able man is, therefore, open to conviction, 
impartial, and comprehensive ; and all these 
qualities, from the very nature of his consti- 
tution, he possesses in a higher degree than 
j| they can be possessed by woman. An un- 
| reasonable man is one who will think and act 
in a particular manner, simply because he 
| will. If he knows any better reason why he 
so thinks and acts, he deems it unnecessary 
to disclose it, because to him this is all-suffi- 
cient ; and as it is one which no’ argument 
can refute, and no opposition overcome, the 
woman who has to accommodate her habits 
to his, had need commence the preparation 
for her married life, by a study of patience 
from the book of Job. 

If, as I have stated, the example and influ- 
ence of a truly excellent man, are such as to 
render the very atmosphere in which he lives 
one of perpetual improvement and delight ; 
on the other hand, there is nothing more dis- 
couraging to a woman, than to find defects 
in the character she has associated herself 
with for life, having believed it to be thus ex- 
cellent. Indeed, the peculiarities of the wise, 
and the. inconsistencies cf the good, among 
the nobler sex, have a peculiarly startling éf- 
fect upon women in general, and often prove 
the means of retarding their improvement, 
by awakening the childish and petulant 
thought, that if such are the best, there can 
be little use in striving after excellence at 
all. | 

All women should, therefore, be prepared 


for discovering faults in men, as they are for 
beholding spots in the sun, or clouds in the 
summer sky. Nor is it consistent with the 


disinterested nature of women’s purest, deep- 


est affection, that they should love them less, 
because they cannot admire them more. 

- Much allowance should be made in all such 
calculations, for the peculiar mode of educa- 
tion by which men are trained for the world. 
From their early childhood, girls are accus- 
tomed to fill an inferior place, to give up, to 
fall back, and to be as nothing in comparison 
with their brothers ; while boys, on the other 
hand, have to suffer all the disadvantages in 
after life, of having had their precocious self- 
ishness encouraged, from the time when they 
first began to feel the dignity of superior 
power, and the triumph of occupying a su- 


perior place. 


Men who have been thus educated by fool- 
ish and indulgent mothers; who have been 
placed at public schools, where the influence, 
the character, and the very name of woman 
was a by-word for contempt; who have been. 
afterwards associated with sisters who were 
capricious, ignorant, and vain—such men 
are very unjustly blamed for being selfish, 
domineering, and tyrannical to the other sex. 
in fact, how should they be otherwise? It | 
is a common thing to complain of the selfish- | 
ness of men, but I have often thought, on 

| 


looking candidly at their early lives, and re- 
flecting how little cultivation of the heart is 
blended with what is popularly called the 
best education, the wonder should be that 
men are not more selfish still. 

With all these allowances, then, we may 
grant them to be selfish, and pity, rather than 
blame them that they are so; for no happy 
being ever yet was found, whose hopes and 
wishes centred in its own bosom. 

The young and inexperienced woman, who 
has but recently been made the subject of 
man’s attentions, and the object of his choice, 
will probably be disposed to dispute this 
point with me, and to argue that one man at 
least is free from selfishness; because she 
sees, or rather hears her lover willing to give | 
up every thing for her. But let no woman 


——————————— ——————————— eee 


ee ee ee 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


26 


trust to such obsequiousness, for generally 
speaking, those who are the most extrava- 
gant in their professions, and the most servile 
in their adulation before marriage, are the 
most unreasonable and requiring afterwards. 
Let her settle it then in her own mind, what- 
ever aspect her affairs may assume at pres- 
ent, that men in general are more apt than 
women, to act and think as if they were 
created to exist of, and by, themselves; and 
this self-sustained existence a wife can only 
share, in proportion as she is identified in 
every thing with her husband. Men have 
no idea, generally speaking, of having them- 
selves and their affairs made subservient to 
an end, even though it may be a good one. 
They are, in fact, their own alpha and omega 
—beginning and end. But all this, I repeat, 
is the consequence of a want of that moral 
training which ought ever to be made the 
prominent part of education. 

Beyond this, however, it may be said to be 
a necessary part of man’s nature, and condu- 
cive to his support in the position he has to 
maintain, that he should, in a greater degree 
than woman, be sufficient unto himself. The 
nature of his occupations, and the character 
of his peculiar duties, require this. 'The con- 
tending interests of the community at large, 
the strife of public affairs, and the compe- 
tition of business, with the paramount im- 
portance of establishing himself as the master 
of a family, and the head of a household, all 
require a degree of concentrated effort in fa- 
vor of self, and a powerful repulsion against 
others, which woman, happily for her, is sel- 
dom or never called upon to maintain. 

The same degree of difference in the edu- 
cation of men and women, leads, on the one 
hand, to a more expansive range of intellect 
and thought; and on the other, to the exer- 
cise of the same faculties upon what is par- 
ticular and minute. Men consequently are 

| accustomed to generalize. They look with 
far-stretching views to the general bearing 
of every question submitted to their considera- 
tion. Even when planning for the good of 
their fellow-creatures, it is on a large scale, 
and most frequently upon the principle of the 


greatest good to the greatest number. . By 
following out this system, injustice is often 
unconsciously done to individuals, and even 
a species of cruelty exercised, which it should 
be woman’s peculiar object to study to avert ; 
but at the same time, to effect her purpose 
in such a way, as neither to thwart nor in- 
terfere with the greater and more important 
good. 

We see here, as in a thousand other in- 
stances, the beautiful adaptation of the natu- 
ral constitution of the two sexes, so as to 
effect a greater amount of good by their joint 
efforts, than either could effect alone. Were 
an island peopled only by men, the strictness 
of its judicial regulations, and the cold form- 
ality of its public institutions, would render it 
an ungenial soil for the growth of those finer 
feelings, and those subtler impulses of nature, 
which not only beautify the whole aspect of 
human life, but are often proved to have 
been blossoms of the richest fruit, and seeds 
of the most abundant harvest. And were a 
neighboring island peopled by women only, 
the discord of Babel, or the heated elements 
of a volcano, could scarcely equal the con- 
fusion, the ebullition, and the universal tu- 
mult, that would follow the partial attention 
given to every separate complaint, the ready 
credence accorded to every separate story, 
and the prompt and unhesitating application | 
of means, to effect at all times the most in- 
compatible ends. 

Those who argue for the perfect equality— 
the oneness of women in ileir intellectual 
nature with men, appear to know little of | 
that higher philosophy, by which both, from 
the very distinctness of their characters, have 
been made subservient to the purposes of 
wisdom and of goodness; and after having 
observed with deep thought, and profound || 
reverence, the operation of mind on mind, 
the powerful and instinctive sympathies 
which rule our very being, and the asso- 
ciated influence of different natures, all 
working together, yet too separate and dis- 
tinct to create confusion ;. to those who have 
thus regarded the perfect adjustment of the 
plans of an all-wise Providence, I own it 


does appear an ignorant and vulgar contest, 

to strive to establish the equality of that, 
which would lose not only its utility, but: its 
perfection, by being assimilated with a dif- 
ferent nature. 

From the same constitution of mind which 
leads men to generalize, and to look at every 
thing they contemplate on an extensive scale, 
they are seldom good economists. Even the 
most penurious, the very misers of whom we 
read such extraordinary accounts, appear to 
have had a very mistaken idea of the best 
means of ensuring the great object of their 
lives. Thus, while most anxious to avoid 
the least unnecessary expense, some men 
greatly increase the waste and the outlay of 
money in their household arrangements, by 
not allowing a sufficient number of imple- 
ments, utensils, or other conveniences, and 
means, for the purpose of facilitating domes- 
tic operations, by making each individual 
thing supply the place for which it is most 
suitable, and best calculated to secure against 
absolute waste. 

The master of a family is quite capable of 
perceiving that money for domestic purposes 
is often in demand ; and that through some 
channel or other, it escapes very rapidly; but 
he is altogether incompetent—and would 
that all men would believe it!—to judge of 
the necessity there is for each particular sum, 
or how the whole in the end must unavoida- 
bly be increased, by making every article of 
household use answer as many purposes as it 
is capable of, without regard to fitness, dura- 
bility, or strength. 

But if, on the one hand, our fitst wish for 
the increased happiness of the homes of 
England would be, that men should let these 
things alone ; our next, and perhaps it ought 
to stand first, and be still more earnest than 
the other, is this, that all women should be 
so educated, and so prepared by the right 
disposition of their own minds, as to afford 
their husbands just grounds for perfect con- 
fidence in their understanding and right prin- 
ciple, with regard to these important affairs. 
For in the first place, without understanding, 
no woman can economize; and in the next, 


CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. a7 


without being supremely anxious for the ful- 
filment of domestic duty, no woman will. 
Thus, in addition to other causes of anxiety, 
sufficiently abounding in the present day, 
throughout every department of business, 
hundreds and thousands of men in the re- 
spectable walks of life, have to suffer from 
daily and almost hourly apprehension, that a 
system of neglect and extravagance in their 
own houses, is wasting away the slender 
profits of their labor and their care. On the 
score of simple kindness, then, one would 
suppose that a right-minded woman would 
wish to spare her husband these distressing 
thoughts ; while, on the score of domestic 
comfort, ease, and independence, it is impos- 
sible to calculate the vast amount to which 
she would herself be the gainer, by convin- 
cing her husband that she was not only able, 
but determined, to manage his household ex- 
penditure with the least possible waste. 

With all this, however, and often ia con- 
nection with the most rigid notions of econ- 
omy, men are fond of personal indulgences ; 
nor ought they ever to be absolutely denied 
so reasonable a means of restoring their ex- 
hausted energy and cheerfulness, more espe- 
cially, because those who are connected in 
any way with business, or who have to provide 
by their own efforts for the maintenance of 
their families, are generally so cireumstanced 
through the greater portion of each day, as 
to be as far removed as possible from all op. 
portunity of personal enjoyment. — 

It would, indeed, be a hard thing to refuse 
to the husband who returns home from h's 
desk, his counter, or his fields, the best se::t, 
or the choicest food, with any other indal- 
gence his circumstances may afford. Hore, 
however, in certain families, exists a f¢ reat 
difficulty ; for some men, and I need not say 
they are of the unreasonable class, are deter- 
mined to have the indulgences, and yet are 
unwilling to incur the expense. From their 
habit of disregarding things in detail, and 
looking upon them only as a whole; they 
are utterly unconscious of the importance of 
every little addition in the shape of luxury to 
the general sum ; and thus the wife is placed 


Se ee 


28 
in the painful dilemma, either of denying her 


wishes, or of bearing all the blame of con- 
ducting her household expenses on too ex- 
travagant a scale. 

There are few situations in the long cata- 
logue of female perplexities more harassing 
than this; for it must ever be borne in mind, 
that men have a tendency to dislike the im- 
mediate instrument of their suffering or priva- 
tion. And this again brings us to observe 
another of their peculiarities, so important 
in its influence upon the whole of mar- 
ried life, that. if a woman should venture to 


probably commit one of the most fatal mis- 
takes by which human happiness was ever 
wrecked. 

The love of woman appears to have been 
created solely to minister; that of man, to be 
ministered unto. It is true, his avocations 
lead him daily to some labor, or some effort 
for the maintenance of his family ; and he 
often conscientiously believes that this labor is 
for his wife. But the probability is, that he 
would be just as attentive to his business, and 
as eager about making money, had he no wife 
at all—witness the number of single men 
‘who provide with as great care, and as plen- 
tifully, according to their wants, for the main- 
tenance of-a house without either wife or 
child. 

As it is the natural characteristic of wo- 
man’s love in its most refined, as well as its 
most practical development, to be perpetual- 
ly doing something for the good or the happi- 
ness of the object of her affection, it is but 
reasonable that man’s personal comfort should 
be studiously attended to; and in this, the 
complacence and satisfaction which most men 
evince on finding themselves placed at table 
before a favorite dish, situated beside a clean 
hearth, or accommodated with an empty sofa, 
is of itself a sufficient reward for any sacrifice 
such indulgence may have cost. In proofs 
of affection like these, there is something tan- 
gible which speaks home to the senses—some- 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


pose himself to rest, with more hearty good- 


husband the gratification of his tastes and | will towards the wife who has been thought- 


ful about these things, than if she had been 
all day busily employed in writing a treatise 
on morals for his especial benefit. | 
Again, man’s dignity, as well as his com- 
fort, must be ministered unto. I propose to 
treat this subject more fully in another chap- 
ter, but in speaking of man’s peculiarities it | 
must never be forgotten that he ought not to 


,be required to bear the least infringement up- 


on his dignity as a man, and a husband. The 
woman who has the bad taste, and worse 
feeling, to venture upon this experiment, ef- 


judge of man’s love by her own, she would | tectually lowers herself; for in proportion as 


her husband sinks, she must sink with him, 
and ever, as wife, be lower still. Many, how- 
ever, from ignorance, and with the very best 
intentions, err in this way, and I am inclined 
to think such persons suffer more from the 
consequences of their folly, than others do 
from their wilful deviation from what is right; 
just as self-love is more wounded by an in- 
nocent, than by an intentional humiliation ; 
because the latter shows us how little we are 
really esteemed, while the former invests us 
with a certain degree of importance, as einige 
worthy of a premeditated insult. 

It is unquestionably the inalienable right of 
all men, whether ill or well, rich or poor, wise 
or foolish, to be treated with deference, and 
made much of in their own houses. It is 
true that in the last mentionedcase, this duty 
may be attended with some difficulty in the 
performance; but as no man becomes a fool, 
or loses his senses by marriage, the woman 
who has selected such a companion must 
abide by the consequences; and even he, 
whatever may be his dec.7e of folly, is enti- 
tled to respect from her, because she has vol- 
untarily placed herself in such a position that 
she must necessarily be his inferior. 

I have said, that whether well or ill, a hus- 
band is entitled to respect; and it is perhaps 


‘when ill, more than at any other time, that 


men are impressed with a sense of their own 
importance. It is, therefore, an act of kind- 


thing which man can understand without an ness, as well as of justice, and a concession 


| effort; and he will sit down to eat, or com- | easily made, to endeavor to keep up this idea, | 


CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. 


by all those little acts of delicate attention 


which at once do good to the body, and sus- 
tain the mind. Illness is to men a sufficient 
trial and humiliation of itself; as it deprives 
them of their free agency, cuts them off from 
their accustomed manly avocations, and 
shuts them up to a kind of imprisonment, 
which from their previous habits they are lit- 
tle calculated to bear. A sensible and kind- 
hearted woman, therefore, will never inflict 
upon the man she loves, when thus circum- 
stanced, the additional punishment of feeling 
that it is possible for him to be forgotten or 
neglected. 

But chiefly in poverty, or when laboring 
under depressed circumstances, it is the part 
of a true wife to exhibit by the most delicate, 
but most profound respect, how highly she 
is capable of valuing her husband, indepen- 


dently of all those adventitious circumstances, 


according to which he has been valued by 
the world. It is here that the dignity of man 
is most apt to give way—here that his stout 
heart fails him—and here then it must be 
woman’s part to build him up. Not,as many 
are too apt to suppose, merely to comfort him 
by her endearments, but actually to raise him 
in his own esteem, to restore to him his esti- 
mate of his moral worth, and to convince him 
that it is beyond the power of circumstances 
to degrade an upright and an honest man. 

And, alas! how much of this is needed in 
the present day! Could the gay and thought- 
less Daughters of England know for. what 
situations they are training—could they 
know how often it will become their duty to 
assume the character of the strong, in order 
to support the weak, they would surely begin 
betimes to think of these things ; and to study 
the different workings of the human heart, 
so as to be able to manage even its master- 
chords, without striking them too rudely, or 
with a hand too little skilled. ; 

And after all, this great dignity of man, is 
not much of it artificial, or at least put on 
like a robe of state to answer an especial 
end? Yes; and a pitiful and heart-rending 
spectacle it is, to see the weakness of man’s 


heart disrobed of all its mantling pride—the 7 


29 


utter nakedness, I might almost say, for wo- 
man has ever something left to conceal her 
destitution. In the multitude of her resour- 
ces she has also a multitude of alleviations 
to her distress; but man has nothing. In 
his humiliation he is like a blighted tree. 
The birds of the air no longer nestle in its 
boughs, the weary traveller no longer sits 
down to rest beneath its shade. Nothing is 
left to it but the clinging ivy, to cover with 
freshness and beauty its ruin and decay. 

It is said of woman that her imagination 
is easily captivated, that she is won by the 
hero’s fame, and led on by her love of glory. 
and distinction to follow in the sunny path 
of the illustrious or the great. But far more 
fatal to the peace of woman, more influential 
upon her conduct, more triumphant in their 
mastery over her whole being, are the tears. 
and helplessness of man, when his proud 
spirit sinks within him, or when he flies from 
his compeers in the race of glory, to bury his’ 
shame, and perhaps his guilt, in her bosom. 

I will not ask how often, after this exhibi- 
tion of his weakness, after regaining his post 
of honor, and being received again a .com- 
petitor for distinction, he has forgotten the. 
witness of his humiliation; but 1 believe it: 
is only as a wife, a mother, or a sister, that 
woman can be this friend to man, with safety 
to herself, and with certainty that he will not 
afterwards rather avoid than seek her, from 
the feeling that she has beheld him shorn of 
his dignity, and is consequently able to re- 
mind him of the humiliating past. For the. 
wife it might also be a dangerous experiment, 
even in her fondest and most unguarded mo- ‘| 
ments, to make any allusion to scenes and 
circumstances of this description ; especially 
to presume upon having necessarily assumed 
at such times the stronger and more impor- 
tant part. When her husband chooses to be 
dignified again, and is capable of maintain- 
ing that dignity, she must adapt herself to 
the happy change, and fall back into com- 
parative insignificance, just as if circum- 
stances had never given her a momentary 
superiority over him. 

The peculiarity already alluded to as a. 


Eee ee 


380 


aaa a 


characteristic of men, and as leading them to 
attach more importance to what is immediate 
and tangible, than what is remote or ideal, 
is one which renders them particularly liable 
to deception, or rather to be, what is more 
properly called, practised upon, than directly 
deceived; so much so, that I believe any 
woman who could manage her own temper, 
might manage her husband, provided she 
possessed his affections. I say might, be- 
cause the mode of management by such 
means would be utterly revolting to a gen- 
erous and upright mind. Thus, by fair 
speech and smooth manners, accompanied 
with servile and flattering subserviency in 
little things, some artful women have con- 
trived to win their way to the accomplish- 
ment of almost every wish; when a single 
rash or hasty word, especially if it implied 
an assumption of the right to choose, would 
have effectually defeated their ends. 

I have listened much when men have 
been discussing the merits of women, and 
have never heard any quality so universally 
commended by the nobler sex, as quietness ; 
while the opposite demerit of a tongue too 
loud, too ready, or too importunate in its ex- 
ertions, has been as universally condemned. 
Thus Iam inclined to think that silence in 
general, and smooth speech when language 
must be used, are ranked by most men 
amongst the highest excellences of the fe- 
male character; while on the other hand, 
those wordy weapons sometimes so injudi- 
ciously made use of, are of all things what 
they most abhor. 

If, however, an artful woman finds it easy 
to practise upon her husband by the immedi- 
ate instrumentality of a raanner suited to his 
taste, this mean and degrading system of 
working out an end, becomes more difficult 
in proportion to the frequency of its detection, 
until at last, some men are brought to sus- 
pect that all women act indirectly in every 
thing they do. Hence comes that frequent 
answer when we ask a simple question mere- 
‘ly for the sake of information—* Why do you 
wish to know?” as if it were impossible for 


| women to be deeply interested where they 


Dal 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


had no end to serve, and as if there must of | 


necessity be some hidden motive concealed 
behind that which is made apparent. This 
habitual retort falls hardly upon those who 
never have deserved it, and not unfre- 
quently forms a serious obstacle in the way 
of obtaining useful knowledge; but it is 
greatly to be feared that such an expression, 
with the suspicion it implies, would never 
have become habitual to men, had not the 
general conduct of women brought this just 
punishment upon them. 

Indeed, there is something revolting to 
man’s very nature in having to calculate 
upon that kind of petty artifice which takes 
advantage of unwariness and credulity, for 
working out a purpose, even where that pur- 
pose may not in itself be wrong. And here 
we are brought at once to that great leading 
peculiarity in man’s character—his nobility, 
or, in other words, his exemption from those 


innumerable littlenesses which obscure the > 


beauty, and sully the integrity of woman’s 
life. From all their underhand contrivances, 
their secret envyings, and petty spite, man 
is exempt; so much so, that the mere con- 
templation of the broad clear basis of his 
moral character, his open truth, his single- 
ness of aim, and, above all, his dignified for- 
bearance under provocation, might often put 
the weaker sex to shame. - . 

I am aware that there is much in the situ- 
ation of both parties to create this difference ; 
that undisputed power to will, and to act, is 
often accompanied by a kind of moral ma- 
jesty, which a weaker spirit never can at- 
tain, while kept in bondage, either by fear or 
by absolute restraint. I am aware too, that 
boys, from their very infancy, are accustomed 
to a mode of treatment as much calculated 
to make them determined, frank, and bold, as 
that of girls is to induce the opposite ex- 
tremes of weakness, artifice, and timid help- 


‘lessness ; but even with these allowances, I 


am persuaded there are broad clear features 
in the moral dignity of man, which it is im- 
possible to contemplate in their strength and 
reality, without respect and admiration. 


And a sacred and ennobling trust it is for 


woman to have the happiness of such a be- 
ing committed to her charge—a holy privi- 
| lege to be the chosen companion of his lot— 
| to come with her helplessness and weakness 
to find safety under his protection, and to re- 
| pose her own perturbed and troubled mind 
beneath the shelter of his love. 

What then, if by perpetual provocation 
| she should awake the tempest of his wrath ! 
We will not contemplate the thought, for 


| tion, as there is attractive in his kindness, 
and flattering in his esteem. 

Nor, in return for this kindness, are we ac- 
{| customed to feel gratitude enough; for take 
away from social life not only the civility, but 
| the actual service done by men, in removing 
| difficulty, protecting weakness, and. assisting 
| in distress, in what a joyless, helpless world 
would women find themselves, left only to the 
} slender aid, and the tender mercies of each 
other ! 

It is too much regarded merely as a thing 
of course, for men to be obliging and atten- 
| tive ; and it is too little remembered at what 
cost to them we purchase their help and their 
indulgence. Nor is it only in solitary instan- 
ces, or for especial favorites, that these efforts 
have to be made. It is the sacrifice of a 
whole lifetime for a man to be polite. There 
is no fireside so warm, but he must leave it 
on a winter’s night to walk home with some 
female visitor, who has probably no charm 
for him. .There is no situation so eligible, 
but he must resign it if required. ‘There is 
no difficulty he must not encounter, no fatigue 
he must not endure, and no gratification he 
must not give up; and for whom? All would 
do this perhaps for one being in the world— 


perhaps for more; but to be willing to do it 


every day and every hour, even for the most 
repulsive, or the most selfish and requiring 
of their sex—there is a martyrdom of self in 
all this, which puts to shame the partial kind- 
ness and disinterestedness of woman. 

It may be said that the popularity of po- 
liteness affords at once its incentive, and its 
reward. But whence then do we receive 
those many private acts of unrequited ser- 


| there is something as fearful in his indigna- | 


rr he 
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 831 
lg es ee UU ee oe 


vice, when no other eye is there but ours to 
witness—no other -tongue to praise? and 
when we ourselves would probably have 
been the last recipients of such favor, had 
our companion chosen to assume the right 
of selecting an object better suited to his 
taste ? 

It is from considerations such as these, and 
I would wish to impress them upon every fe- 
male mind, that I have not included the self. 
ishness of man among his peculiarities, though 
some might think ‘the case would warrant a 
notice of this nature. Yet such is my con- 
viction, that man has much to bear with 
from the capriciousness of woman; such is 
my grateful estimate of his uncalculating |! 
kindness, not less to be admired because it is 
expected and required; such too has been 
my own experience of his general willingness 
to oblige, where there was little to attract, 
and still less to reward; that whatever may 
be said by others, it would ill become me to 
lift up a voice, and that a public one, against 
the selfishness of men. 

Let us rather look again at that nobility of 
which I have already spoken, and while we 
blush to feel the stirrings of an inferior spirit 
prompting us to many an unworthy thought 
and act, let us study to assimilate our nature, 
in all that is truly excellent, with his, who 
was at first expressly formed in the image of 
his Maker. 


CHAPTER IV. 
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 


Lest the reader should suppose, from the 
heading of this chapter, that the management 
of husbands is what is really meant, I must 
at once disclaim all pretension to this particu- 
lar kind of skill; not because I do not think 
it capable of being carried out into a system, 
whereby every woman might become the ac- 
tual ruler in her own domestic sphere, but 
because I consider the system itself a bad 
one, and utterly unworthy of being applied 


ee ec ec ren carrrr aaa cnraer rrr ccea ree eee eraneser ene ene aa aa SS LS aE PSS SLES IT RI NEA eA PEER TT LEE LE 2 eT OS LES I PET ET TE ICE ELITES TT A 


—— 
32 


to any but the most extreme cases of unrea- 
sonableness on the husband’s part. 

With regard to the treatment of husbands, 
then, so great is the variety of character to 
be taken into account that it would be impos- 
sible to lay down any rule of universal appli- 
cation, except upon the broad principles of 
kind feeling, integrity, and common sense. 
Still there are hints which may be thrown 
out, it is to be hoped, with benefit to the in- 
experienced; and many of these will refer 
again to the peculiarity already dwelt upon 
in the foregoing chapter. The tendency in 
men which has been described as rendering 
them peculiarly liable to be impressed by 
what is evident to their senses, must ever be 
consulted by the wife who would adapt her- 
self to her husband’s mood and character ; 
and although these may vary in every indi- 
vidual, and in. the same may change with 
every difference of time and place, it be- 
comes the duty of a wife, and one would 
suppose it must also be her pleasure, studi- 
ously to observe what those things are, which 
habitually strike the attention of her husband, 
so as to convey to him immediate impres- 
sions of pleasure or of pain; remembering 
ever, that all indirect evidence of. our tastes 
and wishes having been consulted, even in 
our absence, is one of the most grateful of- 
ferings that can be made to every human 
heart. 

Thus the general appearance of his home 
has much to do with the complacency man 
naturally feels on returning to it. If his 
taste is for neatness and order, for the ab- 
sence of servants, and for perfect quiet, it 
would be absolute cruelty to allow such a 
man to find his house in confusion, and to 
have to call in servants to clear this thing 
and the other away after his return, as if he 
*!; had never once been thought of, or at least 
i thought of with kindness and consideration, 

until he was actually seen. 
Some men particularly enjoy the cheerful 
welcome of a clean hearth and blazing fire, 


solicitous to stir the glowing embers them- 
selves, rather than to see them stirred by 


— 


others. 


on.a winter’s day; and all are more or less 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


I knew an excellent woiman who al- 
ways had her fire built up in such a manner’ 
before her husband came home, as to present 
a tempting crust for him to break through 
on his arrival; and I much question whether 
the good lady was not more loved for this 
simple act, than she would have been, had. 
her husband found his fire neglected, and 
herself engaged in tears and prayers for his 
individual welfare. 

But here again we recognise no general 
rule, for some men unquestionably there are, 
who would much prefer that their coals 
should be forthcoming on a future day, than 
thus unnecessarily expended in a bonfire to 
welcome their return. 

Again, it is of little use that you esteem 
and reverence your husband in the secret of 
your heart, if you do not by your manners, 
both at home and abroad, evince this pro- 
per deference and regard. At home it is but 
fitting that the master of the house should be 
considered as entitled to the choice of every 


personal indulgence, unless indisposition or 


suffering on the part of the wife render such 


indulgences more properly her due; but even 
then they ought to be received as a favor, 
rather than claimed as a right. 

Women, in the present day, and in houses 
furnished as English homes generally are, 
may enjoy so many advantages in the way 
of pampering the body, from which men, and 
especially those engaged in business, are de- 
barred, that they can well afford to give up 
some of these indulgences to those they love; 
and few indeed would not rather see them 
thus enjoyed, than appropriated exclusively 
to themselves. 

There is, however, one great difficulty in 
connection with this duty, which it is to be 
hoped all persons are not, like the writer, un- 
able to solve. Itis in the important question 


of self-sacrifice, how far this virtue ought to 


extend in the treatment of husbands. There 
is certainly nothing more beautiful to read of 
in books; and could every act of. self-sacri- 
fice be seen and appreciated, there would be 
nothing more delightful to practise towards 
those we love. But the. question is, does it 


BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 


| tell in any high degree upon the happiness 
| of man? Observation of the world would 
lead to the conclusion that it does not, for 
where one husband’s heart has been soften- 
ed with gratitude on discovering how much 
his wife has suffered and denied herself for 
his sake, ten times that number of women 
have been wounded to the very soul at not 
having their acts of self-sacrifice valued ac- 
cording to their cost. 

The fact is, men in general do not see these 
things, unless told of their existence; and 
then at once their charm is destroyed. Is it 
|| not better, then, to be a little more sparing of 
such acts, than to do them, and then grudge 
the expenditure of feeling they require ; or to 
do them, and then complain of the punish- 
ment they inflict? Besides which, some luck- 
less women go on in this way, until more and 
more is expected of them; the husband, in 
his ignorance of the state of things behind 
the scenes, never dreaming of what is ac- 
tually suffered, but rather proposing, in his 
innocence, that as one thing has been so 
comfortably given up, another should follow, 
until at last there bursts upon his unhappy 
head a perfect storm of feeling, from her who 
would willingly have been a martyr for his 
sake, would he only have observed and pi- 
tied what she was enduring for him. 

On the other hand, those women who 
calmly and equitably maintain their rights, 
for rights all women have; who, acting upon 
the broad principle of yielding what is due 
from a wife to a husband, make a clear dis- 
tinction betwixt that, and what would be ex- 
pected by a tyrant from his slave ; who make 
themselves cheerful and comfortable with 
what it is proper for them to enjoy, neither 
withholding what they ought to give up, nor 
giving up what they cannot afford to lose; 
such women are upon the whole to be pre- 
ferred as companions, and certainly they are 
themselves exempt from a world of wounded 
feelipg, under which the more romantically 
generous are perpetually suffering, and at the 
same time weeping and lamenting that they 
do so. 

There is, however, a most delicate medium 


33 


in these cases to be observed, for when once 
woman loses the disinterested generosity of 
her character, she loses her greatest charm; 
and when she becomes a stickler for rights, 
or a monopolizer of good things, presuming 
upon her greater requirements as being a 
more delicate and fragile being than man, 
she may indeed be said to have forfeited all | 
that claims for her sex our interest and our 
admiration. But, on the other hand, though 
she may not be aware of it, there is a secret 
and deep-seated selfishness in the wounded 
feeling which accompanies a generous act, 
on finding it not valued according to its cost. 
Would it not then be wise to let this maxim 
be our rule—that none should give up more 
than they are prepared to resign without 
grudging, whether noticed and appreciated 
or not. 

In my remarks upon the subject of self- 
sacrifice, | would, of course, be understood 
to refer only to those trifling and familiar af- 
fairs in which the personal comfort of daily 
life is concerned. The higher and more 
sacred claims of trial and calamity with 
which the experience of every human being 
is occasionally checkered, admit neither of 
doubt, calculation, nor delay. Here I cannot 
suppose it possible that a true-hearted woman 
would feel the least reserve, for here it is her 
sacred privilege to forget herself, to count no 
item of her loss, to weigh no difficulty, and 
to shrink from no pain, provided she can suf- 
fer for, or even with, the companion whose 
existence is bound up with hers. 

Whatever doubt may be entertained on the 
subject of making self, and selfish gratifica- 
tion, subservient to a husband’s tastes and 
enjoyments, in all the little items of domestic 
arrangement, there can be none with regard 
to what is right in mixing in society either 
with friends or strangers. It is here, the 


privilege of a married woman to be able’ to 
show, by the most delicate attentions, how 
much she feels her husband’s superiority to 
herself, not by mere personal services offi- 
ciously rendered, as if for the purpose of dis- 
play, but by a respectful reference to his 
opinion, a willingly imposed silence when he 


34 


speaks, and, if he be an enlightened man, by 
a judicious turn sometimes given to the con- 
versation, so that his information and intelli- 
gence may be drawn forth for the benefit of 
others. 

It is true that a considerable portion of tact 
is required to manage such matters as these, 
without appearing to manage them at all; for 
if the husband is once made to suspect that 
his wife is practising upon him. for the pur- 
pose of showing how good a wife she is, his 
situation will scarcely be more agreeable than 
that of the man who is made a mere lackey 
of in company, and called. hither and thither 
to do little personal services for his wife, as 
if she had mistaken him for one of her ser- 
vants, or, what is more likely, had chosen 
this means of exhibiting her unbounded in- 
fluence over him. 

Both these extremes are at variance with 
good taste, to say nothing of right . feeling ; 
and here, as in innumerable instances besides, 
we see, that if the tact I have so highly re- 
commended in a previous work, be valuable 
before marriage, it is infinitely more so after- 
wards. Indeed there is scarcely one among 
the various embellishments of female charac- 
ter, not even the highest accomplishments 
exhibited by the most, distinguished belle, 
which may not, in some way or other, be 
rendered a still more exquisite embellishment 
to married life, provided only it is kept in its 
proper place, and made always subservient 
to that which is more estimable. | 


ployed in selecting what is agreeable to a 
husband’s fancy, becomes ennobled to its pos- 
sessor; while those accomplishments, which 
in the crowded drawing-room were worse 
than useless in their display, may sometimes 
be accounted as actual wealth, to her who 
has the good feeling to render them condu- 
cive to the amusement or the happiness of 
her own fireside. 

On the other hand, it is painful to hear the 
complaint so frequently made by married men, 
that their wives have ceased to touch the in- 
strument whose keys were rendered so sweet- 
ly available in the great object of charming 


pg 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


Thus the most fastidious taste, when -em- 


before marriage; and, did not kindness or 
delicacy forbid a further disclosure of the se- 
crets of their lot, there is doubtless a still 
greater number who could speak feelingly of 
their regret, that the air of careful neatness, 
the becoming dress, and the general attract- 
iveness of look and manner, which first won 
their attention, had been gradually laid aside, 
as advancing years and increasing cares had 
rendered them more necessary as an addi- 
tional charm to the familiar scenes of domes- 
tic life. 

Yet in spite of appearances, it is scarcely 
possible to imagine how there should be, in 
any other situation, so natural and so delight- 
ful a display of personal attractions as: at | 
home, and before the one being whom of all 
the world we love best; especially when we | 
reflect that his destiny being bound up with | 
ours, if we allow him to feel weary of our | 
company, annoyed by our absurdities, or dis- 
satisfied with our personal appearance, he 
must at the same time suffer doubly from | 
the mortifying conviction, that these things 
are to remain the same to him throughout 
the whole of his future life or ours. 

What then so natural and so congenial to 
the best feelings of woman, as to render this 
long future as pleasing in its aspect as she 
can? and what so degrading, and so utterly 
at variance with the beauty of the female 
character, as, having once secured a legal 
claim to the protection of a husband, ever 
afterwards to neglect those personal attrac- 
tions, which comparatively few women have 
to be charged with neglecting in their single 
state? Yet of what importance is it to the 
careless observer we meet with in general 
society, how we dress, or whether! we look 
well or ill, compared with what it is to the 
man who has to see us, and perhaps us alone, 
seated opposite to him at every meal! Of 
what importance is it to the stranger that we 
play badly, or do not play at all—that we 
draw without taste, and have never learned 
to converse with sprightliness and ease? His 
happiness is no way dependent upon us. 
He can turn away, and forget us the next 
moment. But the case assumes a widely | 


different character, when we look at it as 
extending through each separate hour of a 
long lifetime ; and surely if there be a natu- 
ral exultation in having charmed an indiffer- 
ent person, or even a whole party, for an 
hour, there must be a higher, and far more 
reasonable satisfaction, in being able to be- 
| guile a husband of his cares, to win him from 
society which might divert his thoughts from 
home, and to render that home, not only the 
scene of his duties, but of his favorite amuse- 
ments, and his dearest joys. 

To this high purpose every intellectual at- 
tainment should also be made conducive, for 
there is much in the life of men, and particu- 
larly where business engages their attention, 
to lower and degrade the mind. There is 
much to render it purely material in its aims 
and calculations; and there is much also, in 
man’s public intercourse with his fellow-man, 
to render him eager and monopolizing in that 
which centres in himself; while at the same 
| time he is regardless or distrustful of others. 

As a rational, accountable, and immortal be- 
| ing, he consequently needs a companion who 
will be supremely solicitous for the advance- 
ment of his intellectual, moral, and spiritual 
nature; a companion who will raise the tone 
of his mind from the low anxieties, and vulgar 
cares which necessarily occupy so large a 
portion of his existence, and lead his thoughts 
to expatiate or repose on those subjects which 
convey a feeling of identity with a higher state 
of existence beyond this present life. ' 


ceive home her weary husband, to render 


the gossip she has heard through the. day, of 
the observations she has made upon her 
neighbor’s furniture and way of living, of the 
personal attentions or slights she has received, 
with a long catalogue of complaints against 
her servants, and, worse than all, ten thou- 
sand reasons, strengthened by that day’s ex- 
perience, why she should be indulged with 
some favorite article of dress or luxury, upon 
| which her heart has long been set! 
It may be said in vindication of this mode 
of conduct, that the occupations of men of 


BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 


while, at the same time, it is within the region 


Instead of this, how often does the wife re- | general bearing of a man’s interests in this 


him still more weary, by an outpouring of all , 


30 


business in the present day are such, and so 
pressing, as to leave them little time, and per- 
haps less inclination, for interesting them- 
selves in subjects of apparently less urgent 
and immediate importance ; and that, con- 
sequently, all endeavor to give their minds a 
bids in favor of nobler things, would be un- 
availing. But in reply to this observation, I 
would ask one question—Have you made the 
experiment? Have you ever tried whether 
the introduction of a new idea, appropriately 
and agreeably clothed, might not be made 
quite as agreeable as the introduction of a 
new article of diet, even dressed with the 
nicest caret Have you then made the ex- 
periment judiciously? for here lies the secret 
of all the good we can reasonably expect. 
If, for instance, you should begin to talk about 
the stars, when your husband asks for his 
slippers, or quote poetry when he wants his 
dinner, the boldest enthusiast would scarcely 
be wild enough to anticipate any very favor- 
able result. 

The first thing to be done in the attainment 
of this high object, is to use what influence | 
you have so as not to lower or degrade the 
habitual train of your husband’s thoughts; 
and the next is, to watch every eligible op- 
portunity, and to use every suitable means, 
of leading him to view his favorite subjects 
in their broadest and most expansive light; 


of woman’s capabilities, to connect them, by 
some delicate mode of association, with the |I- 


world upon his interests in eternity. 

It is extremely difficult in writing on this 
subject to convey my exact meaning, or indeed 
to avoid the charge of wishing to recommend, 
instead of pleasant, easy, fireside chat, the 
introduction of a dull, and dry, or perhaps 
dogmatical discourse, than which, nothing 
can be more opposed, both to the tastes and 
the habits of the writer, as well as to her 
ideas of the nice art of pleasing and doing 
good at the same time. Indeed that mode 
of conversation which I have been accus- 
tomed to describe as talking on a large scale, 
is, except on very important occasions, most 


36 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


inimical to the natural softness and attrac- 
tiveness of woman. It is not, in fact, her 
forte ; but belongs to a region of display in 
which she cannot, or at least ought not, to 
shine. The excellence of woman as regards 
her conversation, consists rather of quick, and 
delicate, and sometimes playful turns of 
thought, with a lively and subtle apprehension 
of the bearings, tendencies, and associations of 
ideas; so that the whole machinery of con- 
versation, if I may be allowed to use such 
an expression, may be made, by her good 
management, to turn off from one subject, 
and play upon another, as if by the direction 
of some magic influence, which will ever be 
preserved from detection by the tact of an 
unobtrusive and sensitive nature. 

It is in this manner, and this alone, that 
women should evince their interest in those 
great political questions which arise out of 
the state of the times in which they live. 
Not that they may be able to attach them- 
selves to a party, still less that they may 
make speeches either in public or in private ; 
but that they may think and converse like 
rational beings on subjects which occupy the 
attention of the majority of mankind ; and it 
is, perhaps, on these subjects that we see most 
strikingly the wide difference betwixt the low 
views so generally taken, and those which I 
would so earnestly recommend. If, for exam- 
ple, a wife would converse with her husband 
about a candidate for the representation of the 
place in which they live, she may, if she 
choose, discuss the merits of the color which 
his party wears, and wish it were some other, 
as being more becoming ; she may tell with 
delight how he bowed especially to her; and 
she may wish from her heart that the num- 
ber of votes may be in his favor, because he 
kissed her child, and called it the prettiest 
he had ever seen. It is this kind of prattle 
which may properly be described as small 
talk, and which it is to be feared denotes a 
littleness of soul. Yet this style of talk may 
be, and sometimes is, applied by women to 
all sorts of subjects, not excepting politics, 
philosophy, and even religion. But, on the 
| other hand, there is an opposite style of con- 


versation which may be used with equal scope 
of application, on almost all subjects, whether 
high or low: and it is a truth which the 
peculiar nature of woman’s mind renders her 
admirably qualified to carry out through ordi- 
nary life, that so intimately connected are our 
thoughts and feelings, habits and pursuits, not | 
only with those of other beings of a similar 
nature, but with a state of existence in which 
that common nature will be more fully de- | 
veloped, that there is scarcely a fact presented 
to our knowledge, which has not a connec- 
tion, either immediate or remote, with some | 
great moral truth; and scarcely a subject | 
brought under our consideration, which may |} 
not be ennobled by conducing, in some way | 
or other, to the improvement of our moral 
being. 

It will readily be perceived, however, that | 
this exercise of the powers of conversation || 
would be utterly unattainable to a woman of | 
ignorant or vulgar mind—that she would || 
alike be incapable of comprehending the de- | 
sirableness of the object, and the best mode | 
of its accomplishment. And here I would | 
again advert to an expression not unfre- | 
quently heard among young ladies, that they 
do not wish to be clever; by which we are 
left to suppose, by their neglect of their own 
minds, that they mean either well-informed, 
or capable of judging rightly. Yet without | 
having paid considerable attention to the im- 
provement and cultivation of their intellectual | 


powers, how will it be possible for them to : 


raise the general tone of thought and con- | 
versation at their own fireside? | 

Although I am not one of those who at- | 
tach any high degree of importance to the | 
possession of great intellectual endowments || 
in woman, because I believe such natural | 
gifts to have proved much more frequently | 
her bane than her blessing, and because they 
are not the qualifications of female character | 
which conduce most to her own happiness | 
or the happiness of those around her; yet | 
if there be any case in which a woman might | 
be forgiven, for entertaining an honest pride | 
in the superiority of her own talent, it would | 
be where she regarded it only as a means | 


of doing higher homage to her husband, and 
bringing greater ability to bear upon the 
advancement of his intellectual and moral 
good. 

Indeed, what is the possession of talent to 
a woman, when considered in her own cha- 
racter, separately, and alone? The posses- 
sion of a dangerous heritage—a_ jewel which 
cannot with propriety be worn—a mine of 
wealth which has no legitimate channel for 
the expenditure of its vast resources. But 
let her find this natural and lawful medium 
for its exercise, and we see at once in what 
an enviable position she is-:placed. Wesee 
{| at once the height from which she can stoop, 
|| the costliness of the sacrifices she is conse- 
‘|| quently enabled to make, and the evidences, 
no less valuable, which she can thus. bring 
forward as proofs of her affection. 

Nothing, however, can be more delicate 
and trying than the situation of such a wo- 
man, and especially when her husband is 
inferior to herself; but if he should be abso- 
lutely silly, it would require more skill than 
the writer of these pages can boast, to know 
what mode of treating him to recommend ; 
for build him up as you will before company, 
and much may be done in this. way by the 
exercise of delicacy and tact, a truly grovel- 
ling man will sink again, and there is no 
help for it. The charitable conclusion is, 
that a woman so situated must be content 
to reap the consequences of her own folly, in 
having made so unsuitable a choice. The 
best friend on earth would be unable to as- 
sist her, nor could the sagest counsel rectify 
her mistake. 

In the case of a highly-gifted woman, even 
where, there is an equal or superior degree 
of talent possessed by her husband, nothing 
can be more injudicious, or more fatal to her 
happiness, than an exhibition even of the 
least disposition to presume upon such gifts. 
Let her husband be once subjected ‘to a feel- 
ing of jealousy of her importance, which, 
without the strictest watchfulness, will be 
liable to arise, and her. peace of mind and 
her free. agency are alike destroyed for the 
remainder of.her life; or at any rate, until 


BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 


she can convince him afresh, by a long con- 
tinuance of the most scrupulous conduct, 
that the injury committed against him was 
purely accidental, and foreign alike to her 
feelings and her inclinations. 

Until this desirable end is accomplished, 
vain will be all her efforts to render homage 
to her husband as a superior. He will re- 
gard all such attempts as acts of condescen- 
sion, assumed for no other purpose than that 
of showing how gracefully she can stoop. 
In vain may she then. endeavor to assist or 
direct his judgment; he will in such a case 
most naturally prefer to thwart her, for the 
purpose of proving his own independence 
and his power. 

‘The same observations will apply, though 
in a milder degree, to cases in which there 
have been any great advantages of wealth 
or station on the side of the wife. ‘The most 
unselfish and generous consideration, ac- 
companied with the strictest care, are neces- 
sary here to avoid giving occasion of offence 
to that manly pride whichrstartles at nothing 
so much as owing dignity to a woman, and 
being reminded of the obligation. __ 

But if, on the one hand, this situation 
presents a narrow and critical walk with re- 
gard to action, on the other, it affords a 
boundless and delightful field in which feel- 
ing may expatiate ; for it is scarcely possible 
to imagine any consciousness more happy 
than that of having been the means of con- 
ferring affluence or honor upon the being 
we most love: and if the consequences are 
such as lead to a trembling apprehension of 
being perpetually liable to give pain, they 
also admit of a noble exultation in being en- 
abled by the same means to give an adequate 
degree of pleasure. 

With this feeling, subdued by Christian 
meekness, and cherished only in her “ heart 
of hearts,” it might almost.be forgiven to any 
woman secretly to exult in being favorably 


| distinguished ; for to render illustrious a be- 


loved name, and to shed a glory around an 
honored. brow, is at once the most natural, 
and the noblest ambition, of which the female 
mind is capable. 


In order to render more clear and definite 
the observations which have been called forth 
by the subject of this chapter, it has been al- 
most necessary to act the ungracious part of 
pointing out instances of failure, rather than 
success. ‘This has been done, however, with 
the most sincere belief, that such instances, 
notwithstanding the frequency of their occur- 
rence, arise, for the most part, entirely out of 
ignorance, or want of thought and observa- 
tion, and are as frequently accompanied by 
an amiable and praiseworthy desire to be in 
all things, such a friend and companion as a 
reasonable husband would wish. 

And after all, what is it that man seeks in 
the companionship of woman ?—An_ influ- 
ence like the gentle dew, and the cheering 
light, more felt throughout the whole of his 
existence, in its softening, healing, harmon- 
izing power; than acknowledged by any sin- 
gle act, or recognised by any certain rule. 
It is in fact a being to come home to, in the 
happiest sense of that expression. . 

Poetic lays of ancient times were wont to 
tell, how the bold warrior returning from the 
fight would doff his plumed helmet, and, re- 
posing from his toils, lay bare his weary 
limbs, that woman’s hand might pour into 
their wounds the healing balm. But never 
wearied knight, nor warrior covered with 
the dust of battle-field, was more in need of 
woman’s soothing power, than are those 
care-worn sons of toil, who struggle for the 
bread of life, in our more peaceful and en- 
lightened days. And still, though the ro- 
mance of the castle, the helmet, the waving 
plume, and the 

“Clarion wild and high,” 

may all have vanished from the scene; the 
charm of woman’s influence lives as brightly 
in the picture of domestic joy, as when she 
placed the wreath of victory on the hero’s 
brow. Nay, more so, for there are deeper 
sensibilities at work, thoughts more profound, 
and passions more intense, in our great 
theatre of intellectual and moral strife; than 
where the contest was for martial fame, and 
force of arms procured for each competitor 
lis share of glory, or of wealth. 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


Amongst all the changes which have taken 
place in the condition of mankind, it is then 
not the least of woman’s privileges, that her 
influence remains the same, except only as 
it is deepened and perfected as her own 
character approaches towards perfection. It 
is not the least of her privileges, that she can 
still be all to man which his necessities re- 
quire ; that he can retire from the tumult of 
the world, and seek her society with a zest 
which nothing can impair, so long as she re-. 
ceives him with a true and faithful heart— 
true to the best and kindest impulses of 
which her nature is capable; and faithful to 
the sacred trust committed to her care. 

And that it is so, how many an English 
home can witness—how many a fireside 
welcome—how many a happy meeting after 
absence painfully prolonged! Yes, there are 
scenes within the’ sacred precincts of the 
household hearth, which, not the less be- 
cause no stranger’s eye beholds them, repay, 
and richly too, dark days of weary conflict, 
and long nights of anxious care. But who 
shall paint them? Are they not graven on 
the hearts of English wives? and those who 
hold the picture there, in all its beauty, vivid- 
ness, and truth, would scarcely wish to draw 
aside the veil, which screens it from the world. 


pale Bk Se 


ra 


CHAPTER V. 


CONFIDENCE AND TRUTII. 


Wirs regard to the behavior of wives to- 
wards their husbands, there is one great end 
to be attained, so unmeasurably beyond all 
others in its influence upon their happiness 
and their usefulness, that all which is requi- 
site for the promotion of their true interest, 
might be summed up in this one recommend- 
ation—that the wife should endeavor, before 
every other earthly thing, and next to the 
salvation of her soul, to obtain and keep her 
husband’s confidence. Without this, the 
marriage tie is indeed a galling chain; and 
the woman who subjects herself to it, less en- 
viable than a real slave. With this—with 


ae 


BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 


the perfect trust of a nobler nature reposing 
on her own, woman is raised to a degree of 
moral elevation, which, in her single state, 
she never could have known; and if her 
own disposition be generous and grateful, she 
will feel it a sacred obligation not to abuse 
this trust. 

But the great and important question arises, 
how is this trust to be secured? With the 
most ardent desire to enjoy this, the chief 
good of married life, and the foundation up- 
on which all its happiness must rest, there 
are two ways in which woman may effectu- 
ally fail—intellectually, and morally. In the 
first, she may fail from want of knowledge; 
in the second, from want of principle. 

In the first instance, whatever there may 
be in her conduct or conversation exhibiting 
a want of judgment, of that perception of 
fitness and adaptation, which is invaluable in 
the female character, and of a proper ac- 
quaintance with common things, is calculated 
to weaken the confidence of her husband in 
her ability, whatever her inclination may be, 
to make a good wife, a prudent mistress, or 
a judicious mother. It is in vain complain- 
ing that this sentence is a hard one, when 
her heart is right, and when she really does 
her best. It is in vain complaining that her 
husband does not trust her, either with the 
knowledge of his affairs, or the management 
of her own. Confidence in one being is not 
a matter of choice in another. It is what we 
ourselves must purchase by an absence of 
failure on those points, in which the interests 
of another party are dependent upon us. 

If, then, a husband finds in his wife a de- 
gree of ignorance which renders her incapa- 
ble of judging rightly in common things, if 
he finds that she has never made any proper 
use of her powers of observation, that she 
has not been in the habit of thinking to any 
rational purpose, of discriminating, compar- 
ing, or drawing right conclusions from what 
sheshas seen and heard, it would be hard in- 
deed to require him to believe that she will 
act with prudence and propriety as the mis- 
tress of a house; and the natural conse- 
quence is, that she must be watched, sus- 


pected, and in some degree treated as a 
child. 
If, therefore, in a previous work I have 


earnestly recommended to the Daughters of 


England an early, and diligent cultivation of 
their mental powers, it has not been that such 
embellishments of character as are classed 
under the head of “Cleverness, Learning, 
and Knowledge,”’ or “Taste, Tact, and Ob- 
servation,” should merely give zest to con- 
versation, or throw an intellectual charm 
over the society of the drawing-room ; it is 
that the happy individual who possesses 
these advantages, may, on becoming a wife, 
become also a companion in whom her hus- 
band can perfectly, and at all times, confide. 

There are, however, cases in which the 
want of this confidence falls hardly, because 
it is the inevitable result of circumstances, 
over which the wife in her single state had 
no control. One of these is where the mind 
is naturally weak; and here the wife would 
certainly act most wisely, by placing her ac- 
tions and opinions under the direction of her 
husband, and allowing herself to be treated 
accordingly. 

But there are also those, who, from ‘no 
fault of their own, have, before marriage, en- 
joyed few advantages as regards mental cul- 
tivation. In this case, much may be done in 
the way of making up for loss time; and 


where a studious desire to do so is evinced, 


where a respectful and judicious reference to 
the husband’s opinion is sometimes made, 
and at other times a still more judicious si- 
lence observed, these proofs of good sense 
and right feeling, will go a long way towards 
obtaining the confidence desired. 

But a far more serious, and it is to be 
feared more frequent reason for the loss of 
this invaluable treasure, is a moral one. And 
here, so many causes meet and combine in 
their operation, that it would require no com- 
mon degree of knowledge of the human 
heart to be able to point them out with per- 
spicuity and effect. The first thing I shall 
specify in relation to this part of the subject 
is, the essential importance there is, that 
every husband should feel himself perfectly 


40 


safe with his wife. “Safe!” exclaims the 
worthy helpmeet, “with whom could he be 
safe, if not with me? Do I not watch him, 
care for him, and wait upon him with a so- 
licitude that would screen him from every 
approach of harm?’ All this may be true 
enough, and yet you may occasionally have 
taken advantage of your intimacy, for dis- 
closing weaknesses on his part, which need not 
otherwise have been known; you may have 
marked your occasion when company was 
present, for throwing out hints against him, 
which you dared not have uttered when 
alone; or you may have betrayed an evident 
triumph before your friends, or your servants, 
on obtaining over him some advantage in 
opinion, or argument. 

Although such offences as these may ap- 
pear but very trifling items, when separately 
enumerated, yet their number and variety 
sometimes make up a sum of considerable 
magnitude and importance, as they operate 
upon individual feeling, and evince too clear- 
ly a want of delicacy, generosity, or real af- 
fection. They lead, in short, to the very 
natural feeling, on the part of the husband, 
that his wife is not the bosom friend he had 
fondly imagined her, that she knows no per- 
fect identity of self with him, but has sepa- 
rate interests to which he and his affairs are 
liable at any time to be made subservient. 

I have already said, that the dignity of 
man should always be studiously maintained ; 
but there is also a delicate and respectful 
manner of giving way to a husband in little 
things, which is the surest means of obtaining 
concessions on his part, in those which are 
of greater moment, simply because, having 
found his wife generally yielding, considerate, 
and respectful to his wishes, he cannot sup- 
pose she will differ from him without some 
good and sufficient reason for doing so. 

Upon the same principle, a wise woman 
will never be too requiring. She will neither 
demand from her husband those personal 
services which are degrading to a man anda 
gentleman, nor weary his patience by en- 
deavoring to tease him out of every fault; 
for though the great end of marriage should 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


be mutual improvement, it is no more than 
fair, that the wife should allow her husband 
at least as many faults as he allows her. At 
allevents, when little defects of character, 
and especially such as may be called consti- 
tutional, are quietly and charitably borne 
with, much strength is gained for making a 
stand against those which are more serious ; 
and the husband who is kindly permitted to 
rest himself, if he chooses, in an awkward 
position, and to wear an unbecoming coat be- 
cause it is a favorite, will be all the more 
likely, at the solicitation of his wife, to, give 
up habits which are really more objection- 
able. 

All individual peculiarities, which may not 
exactly be called faults, should be conceded 
to in the same manner ; always remembering, 
that what we allow to men on the ground of 
their love of importance and authority, they 
equal, and often surpass, in what they yield 
to our weakness, incapacity, and occasional 
perverseness. There are many of these pecu- 


liarities, that, like our own, might excite a de- |}. 
gree of ridicule, which, however, ought never |} 


to extend beyond mere playfulness, and not 
even so far as that, except where it is re- 
ceived in the same spirit. 


If it were possible to whisper upon paper,. 


I should here avail myself of a convenient 
aside, to hint that there is often a great deal 
of unnecessary bustle and importance when 
men have any thing to do. But why should 
we mind that—why should we not allow 
them the satisfaction: of feeling, that as re- 
gards the little world in which they rule su- 
premely, all space is theirs, and all time? 
and if we have not patience to look on, and 
see the order of our house overturned, our 
dinner waiting, our servants called away 
from their work, one to fetch paper, another 
string, and a third to wait until the mighty 
affair is complete; we have at least the ad- 
vantage, when the same thing has to be done 
again, of taking the opportunity to do it*our- 
selves. " 

A respectful deportment, and a complying 
disposition, evinced in these and similar 
cases, with a general willingness to accom- 


CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH. 


modate all household arrangements to a hus- 
band’s wishes, making every other consider- 
ation subservient to his convenience, wil en- 
sure for the wife, who consistently does this, 
a large portion of that confidence upon which 
her influence and her happiness so much de- 
pend. . 

But the greatest of all claims upon this 


confidence has yet to be considered; and. 


would there were no occasion, in relation to 
this subject, so much as to whisper these 
words into the ear of an English wife—Never 
deceive! Were all men reasonable, tempta- 
tions to do so would be infinitely less than 
they are; for difficult indeed is the lot of that 
woman, who would act uprightly, whose 
judgment and principles are good, and who 
is yet thwarted by a narrow-minded, weak, 
selfish, or low-principled man. 

Let us imagine the case of such a wife, so 
situated that her lord is absent for the greater 
part of every day. Let us imagine her, too, 
surrounded by a family, having the interests 
of children, servants, and dependents to care 
for, and anxious to regulate the affairs of her 
household according to the principles of jus- 
tice and integrity. She has her own con- 
‘science for her guide in all this, and if it be 
an enlightened one, how is she to make all 
her actions accord with the views of a hus- 
band, who is unenlightened, perverse, or par- 
tial, and perhaps jealous of her influence, and 
consequently determined to thwarther plans ? 
Yet how is she decidedly to oppose his 
wishes, consistently with the respect which is 
due from a wife? 

Surely the situation of such a woman, 
could it be contemplated in all its difficulties, 
and under all its gloomy shades, might be 
sufficient to deter any one whose married 
lot was not yet fixed, from risking her happi- 
ness with such a man. 

If a woman thus situated, could by any 
honest means contrive to manage her hus- 
band, so that he should zot know it, I think 
the wisest advocate for the supremacy of the 
lofiier sex, would scarcely deny her such a 
privilege ; and unquestionably there are cases 
in which unreasonable husbands are made 


41 
both happier and better, by being thus man- 
aged. Besides, the general order of a house- 
hold, the direction of servants, and the influ- 
ence of masters and mistresses over their de- 
pendents and inferiors, require that if good 
sense, right feeling, and sound _ principles, 
exist on one side, they should not be made 


subservient to ignorance, prejudice, and ca- | 


price, on the other. 

I have said that all women have their 
rights, and it would be wise to begin early in 
married life to act upon the principle, which 
allows to every wife a little sphere of domes- 
tic arrangements, with which the husband 
shall not feel that he has any business to in- 
terfere, except at her request, and into which 
a reasonable man would not wish to obtrude 
his authority, simply because the operations 
necessary to be carried on in that department 
of his household, are alike foreign to his un- 
derstanding and his tastes. ‘To submit every 
little act of domestic management to the opin- 
ion of a husband, would be unquestionably 
to have one half of them at least either de- 
feated in their object, or immediately inter- 
dicted, from no other reason than pure ignor- 
ance of their naturé, cause, and effect. Thus, 
unless a husband can feel sufficient confidence 
in his wife, to allow her to rule with undis- 
puted authority in this little sphere, her case 
must be a pitiable one indeed. 

I have repeated the word liiéle, because I 
believe it is from an ambitious desire to ex- 
tend the limits of this sphere, that many have 
brought trouble upon themselves, by having 
their authority called in question, more than 
it ever would have been, had they remained 
satisfied with a narrower field for its exercise. 

But delicacy, and strict fairness, are both 
required on the part of the wife, to ensure to 
herself this desirable allowance of free agency, 
for she must remember, that her husband has 
also his appropriate sphere of action, and a 
much more extensive one than hers, in which 
she has no right to interfere, because, as in 
the case already stated, she is incapable of 
understanding what is necessary there; and 
if on both sides there should be the exercise 
of this delicacy and fairness, in avoiding all 


a 


42 


assumption of a right which does not exist, 
it is impossible but that real affection should 
dictate the mutual development of much, if 
not all, which could interest the feelings of 
either party. 

Thus, there need be no positive conceal- 
ment, for that is the last thing I would re- 
commend ; but an open, honest, straightfor- 


upon the other, less for assistance in its own 
sphere, than for perfect propriety of feeling, 
and constant adherence to principle, in the 
sphere to which it more properly belonged. 
It is upon a right observance of distinctions 
such as these, that the dignity and usefulness 
of the marriage state in a great degree de- 
pend—from remembering that principle must 
ever be the foundation of action; but that 
| the open disclosure of every act and purpose, 
} must ever be a matter of choice; and if re- 
| garded as such, there will be no doubt but 
| mutual love will supply information enough 
to satisfy the most unbounded curiosity. 
Thus it has never appeared to me, that the 
free agency which a judicious wife should be 
| permitted to enjoy in her own department, 
had any thing to do with concealment; any 
more than that the transactions in one public 
office should be said to be concealed from 
another, because each had its separate rooms 
and officers. So far from this, I should rather 
say that a generous nature, and especially 
that of woman, when implicitly trusted to, 
and made to feel that trust, will, from a sense 
of grateful satisfaction, involuntarily disclose 
its every plan, purpose, and act, not even 
throwing a veil over its many failures and 
short-comings in the way of discretion or duty. 
Indeed, so powerful in its influence upon 
the female character, is this feeling of being 
trusted, that I have often thought if man 
could know the heart of woman better, he 
might almost guide it to his pleasure, by sim- 
ply using this master-key to her gratitude 
and generosity. But I must not forget, that 
my business is with the behavior of wives to 
| their husbands, not with that far easier sub- 


| bands to their wives. 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


prehended under the general head of confi- 
dence towards wives, there is one of such 
paramount importance to the rectitude of 
woman’s conduct in her domestic affairs, that 
were this one consideration all which had to 
be taken into account, it would of itself be 
well worth every endeavor to ensure so de- 
sirable an end. I mean the open communi- 
cation of the state of the husband’s pecuniary 
circumstances to his wife ; 
imagine any thing more congenial to the best 
feelings of a faithful wife, than to be made 
the partaker of all the interest and enjoyment 
her husband derives from prosperity and suc- 


ward way of acting, as if each mind depended | 


greater cruelty, than that of allowing a wo- 


real state of his affairs, when they are in any 


ject in a female hand; the behavior of hus- | 


Among other points of consideration, com- 


for I can scarcely 


cess; while, on the other hand, there is no 


man of good principles and right feelings, to 
go on ignorantly conducting her household 
expenses, in a manner inconsistent with the 


degree depressed or involved in difficulty. 
Yet how often has this been the case! 
How often has an honest-hearted woman had 
to bear the charge of having been in reality | 
dishonest to her husband’s creditors, when 
ignorance, not want of principle, was the 
cause! Besides which, how much may be 
done by domestic economy, and by a consist- 
ently meek and unpretending deportment, 
if not exactly to avert the calamity of a ruin- 
ed house, at least to alleviate the wounded 
and bitter feelings which naturally arise 
among those who are the greatest sufferers. 
The present day is one which claims pecu- 
liar attention to this subject; and if from any 
fault in the wife, from any betrayal of her 
husband’s secrets, any artifice or trickery 
practised against himself, any assumption 
of unbecoming importance on her part, any 
want of consideration for his feelings, or fool- 
ish and presumptuous interference with mat- 
ters peculiarly his own—if from any of these 
causes, she has shut herself out from his con- 
fidence, now, before it shall be too late, is the 
time to begin a new system of behavior, for 
which she may eventually be rewarded by | 
being admitted into his bosom-counsels, and | 
thus allowed to share, not only in all the || 


CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH. 


43 


hopes and fears arising out of the fluctua- 
ting nature of pecuniary affairs; but also in 
those nobler acts of self-denial, which accom- 
pany sound and enlightened views of the re- 
quirements of justice, in all transactions of 
a pecuniary character. | 

What, then, of such importance as to ob- 
tain the perfect and confiding trust of the 
companion with whom, or for whom, you 
have to act in every thing you do? and in 
order to this happy attainment, nothing is so 
essential as that you should yourself be true. 

There is a spirit of truth and a spirit of 
falsehood, pervading many of those actions, 
which could not be said to be either true or 
false in themselves. Yet, according to the 


choice we make betwixt these, our behavior 


will be upright, candid, generous, and free; 


or it will be servile, artful, selfish, and cow- 
ardly. It does not follow, in order to practise 
| falsehood, that we must deviate from the ex- 


act letter of truth. There are methods of 


| deceiving, as many, and as various, as the 
| circumstances which checker our experience 


every day; and if a conscientious adherence 


| to truth is not made the rule of daily life, one 
|| act of duplicity will grow out of another, un- 


til the whole conduct becomes a tissue of ar- 
tifice and deceit. 

The first and most innocent step towards 
falsehood is concealment. Before our com- 
mon acquaintances, there is wisdom in prac- 


| tising concealment to a certain extent; but 


where the intimacy is so great, the identity 
so close, as between a husband and a wife, 
concealment becomes a sort of breach of 
faith ; and with parties thus situated, the 
very act of concealment can only be kept up 
by a series of artful endeavors to ward off 
suspicion or observation of the thing con- 
cealed. 

Now, when a husband discovers, as in all 
probability he will, unless these endeavors 
are carried out to a very great extent—when 
he discovers that his wife has been conceal- 


| ing one thing from him, he very naturally 


supposes that she has concealed many more ; 
and his suspicions will be awakened in pro- 
portion. It will then be in vain to assure 


him that your motive was good, that what 
you did was only to spare him pain, or afford 
him pleasure; he will feel that the very act 
is one which has set him apart in his own 
house as a stranger, rather than a guardian 
there—an enemy, rather than a friend. 

Why then should you begin with conceal- 
ment? The answer, it is to be feared, is but 
too familiar—* My husband is so unreason- 
able.” And here then we see again the great 
advantage of choosing as a companion for | 
life, a reasonable man, who may with safety 
and satisfaction be made acquainted with 
every thing you think or do. 

After concealment has been habitually prac- 
tised, there follows, in order to escape detec- 
tion, a system of false pretences, assumed 
appearances, and secret schemes, as much 
at variance with the spirit of truth, as the 
most direct falsehood, and unquestionably as 
debasing to the mind. 

But, as an almost inevitable consequence, 
next follows falsehood itself; for what wo- 
man would like her husband to know that 
she had, for days, months, or years, been 
practising upon his credulity. If he discov- 
ers what she has been concealing, he will 
also discover, that often when the subject 
was alluded to, she artfully evaded his ques- 
tions by introducing another ; that sometimes 
she so managed her voice as to convey one 
idea, while she expressed another; and that 
at other times she absolutely looked a lie. 
No, she cannot bear that he should look back 
and see all this, lest he should despise her ; 
and, therefore, in some critical moment, when 
brought into that trying situation in which 
she must either confess al!, or deny all, she 
pronounces at last that fatal word, which 
effectually breaks asunder the spiritual bond 
of married love. 

And now, it is scarcely possible to imagine 
a more melancholy situation than that of a 
weak and helpless woman, separated by false- 
hood from all true fellowship, either human or 
divine; for there, is no fellowship in false- 
hood. The very soul of disunion might 
justly be said to be embodied in a lie. It is 
in fact the sudden breaking asunder of that 


a 


SSS 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


se AS A i 


44 


great chain which connects together all 
spiritual influences; and she who is guilty 
of falsehood, must necessarily be alone ;— 
alone, for she has no sympathy of feeling 
with the beautiful creation around her, of 
which it has truly been said, that “ Nature 
never deceives ;’’—alone, for in that higher 
world, where all her secret thoughts and acts 
are registered, its very light is truth ;—alone, 
for she has voluntarily become a stranger, a 
suspected thing, an enemy, to that one friend 
in whose bosom she might have found shelter 
and repose. 

It is a fact which scarcely needs to be re- 
peated, that the closer the intimacy, and the 
more important the trust, the greater is the 
individual injury, and consequently the viola- 
tion of personal feeling, when that trust is 
abused. ‘Thus when the child is first made 
to understand that it has been deceived by 


its mother, the very life of its little soul seems. 


for a moment to be quenched. When the 
father finds that his, prodigal son has but 
returned to take advantage of his affection 
and credulity, his wounded spirit sinks, and 
his weary heart is broken. But when the 
husband looks with earnest eyes into the 
countenance whose beauty was once his 
sunshine; when memory flies back, and 
brings again her plighted vow, with all its 
treasury of truth; when he thinks of that 
fond heart which seemed to cling to his in 
all the guileless innocence of unsophisticated 
youth—oh, it is horrible “to be discarded 
thence,” by the dark demon of distrust, per- 
petually reminding him, that the bright and 
sunny tide of early love, upon which he 
trusted all the riches of his soul, is but a 
smiling and deceitful ocean, whose glassy 
surface at once reflects the hues of heaven, 
and conceals the depths of hell. 

It is impossible to speak in language ade- 
quate to the importance of this cause, for by 
failure in this one point, the whole fabric of 
connubial affection, which might otherwise 
be made so influential in the promotion of 
every kind of good, becomes a heap of ruins, 
as disgraceful to the deceiver as unsightly to 
the deceived. — ' 


Yet, after all, is not the former the greater 
sufferer of the two? Is it not more miserable 
to be thus separated from all community of 
thought and feeling, either earthly or divine, 
than to be the mere dupe of treachery or 
guile? Yes, and she feels it so, and out of 
her very desolation, sometimes awakes the 
voice of penitence, making confession of some 
individual act of transgression, and craving, |f 
with all the humility of utter wretchedness, 
to be reinstated in confidence and esteem. 
But this cannot be. The thing is impossible. 
The silver cord which has ‘been loosed, no 
single act of human will can tie again. The 
golden bowl which has been broken, no sin- 
gle effort of human kindness can restore. 

But may not years bring back the confi- 
dence so wantonly abused? Oh, blessed | 
thought! Begin, then, a new life. Let truth 
be the principle of every thought, the echo 
of every word, the foundation of every act. 
Truth is invincible—it must—it will prevail. | 
Beautiful as the morning it will arise; glori- | 
ous as the noonday it will shine forth; calm 
as the evening it will be followed by repose ; 
and thus each day may feel its gladdening 
and invigorating influence ; while every flow- 
er that grows beneath its ray will shed a 
charm upon the path of life. 

But if the regaining of confidence after it has 
been lost, be an object of such immeasurable 
importance to attain, what must be the happi- 
ness of her who has never lost this treasure ? 
who has borne through all change, and all 
trial, a true and upright heart towards her 
husband, who, though he may have some- 
times mistaken, and sometimes blamed her, 
has still been able to say, even when appear- 
ances were least favorable, and when per- 
haps he was most in need of the consolation 
derived from reposing implicit confidence in 
her sincerity— 


“Thou art my true and honorable wife, 
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
That visit this sad heart.” 


What, then, if she has sometimes suffered 
when it has seemed asif a little artifice would 
have made all things easy, that suffering has 


"been in anoble cause. And then the reward! 
_—the conscience void of offence towards that 
_ one being to whom she can be nothing, if not 
_true—the fearless look—the unfaltering tone 
_—the steady hand—the soul that might be 
/ mirrored forth before him—the hopes, the 
| fears, that might be his--the workings of a 
busy mind, whose minutest plans might all 
at any moment be laid bare before his scru- 
tinizing eye—and onward, into the far future, 
not a dream but he might know it all—and 
onward yet—the blessed consciousness that, 
should the secrets of all hearts be read on 
the great day of everlasting doom, there 
would be one whose glance, and that the 
most familiar, would not detect a single act 
or thought of her whole life inimical to his 
interests, or such as might not have been 
revealed to him before. 

Nor is the mere escape from the uncer- 
tainty, anxiety, and pain, entailed upon the 
habitual practice of falsehood, all that has to 
be considered. A _ brighter picture in the 
page of truth, is that in which we see por- 
trayed in living hues, the enjoyment of un- 
burdening a full heart, and laying open its 
secret treasury of thought and feeling to him 
whose earthly portion, whether it be one of 
weal or wo, must inevitably be blended with 
our own. And it is from this very identity 
that the practice and the love of truth be- 
comes more important, as a moral obligation 
in the married state, than in all others. In- 
deed the perfect truth towards each other of 
individuals thus united, is as necessary to 
their welfare and their happiness, as the 
union and concurrence of the different mem- 
bers of the human frame, is to the usefulness 
and integrity of the whole. 

It is, as has already been stated, the pecu- 
liar privilege of a strict adherence to truth, 
that it brings its own reward ; for if we vol- 
untarily confess the truth, by this means we 
obtain confidence ; if we suffer for truth, we 
have the consolation of suffering in a noble 
cause, and of gaining strength by every effort 
we make in its support; while, if we en- 
deavor conscientiously to uphold the truth, 
and thus consistently exemplify the beauty 


THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 


45 


and the power of this. great attribute in the 
Divine government, we have the still higher 
satisfaction of doing our humble part to glorify 
the God of truth. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 


Ir, in the foregoing pages, I have sukeni| 
of the married state as one of the trial of 
principle, rather than of the fruition of hope ; 
and if, upon the whole, my observations 
should appear to have assumed a discour- 
aging, rather than a cheering character, it has 
arisen, in the first place, from my not having 
reached, until now, that part of the subject in 
which the advantages of this connection are 
fully developed ; and if, in the second place, 
I must plead gulity to the charge of desiring 
to throw some hindrances in the way of 
youthful aspiration, it has simply been from 
observing amongst young people generally, 
how much greater is the tendency to make 
the experiment for themselves, than to pre- 
pare themselves for the experiment. 

If, therefore, I have selected words of 
warning, in preference to those of an opposite 
nature, it has been because the tide of popular 
feeling, especially amongst young women, is 
already sufficiently strong in favor of matri- 
monial alliances ; while the disposition to en- 
sure all the advantages of such an alliance, 
appears far beyond what bears any propor- 
tion to the desire evinced for submitting to 
that discipline, by which alone they can be 
rendered permanent. 

That this disproportion betwixt expectation 
and reality, arises from ignorance, rather than 
any other cause, I am fully prepared to believe 
—ignorance of the human heart, of the actual 
circumstances of human life, of the operation 
of cause and effect in human affairs, and of 
the relative duty of human beings one to- 
wards another. 

The numbers who have failed in this way 
to realize in their experience of married life, 


] 


ad 


: 
ii alll SRN: age aca 


= 


46 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


I 


the fair picture which imagination painted 
before it was tried, it would be useless to at- 
tempt to enumerate; as well as to tell how 
many have thrown the blame of their disap- 
pointment upon situation or circumstances— 
upon husband, servants, friends, or relatives 
—when the whole has rested with themselves, 
and has arisen solely out of a want of adapta- 
tion in their views and habits to the actual 
requirements of the new state of existence 
upon which they have entered. 

That this state itself is not capable of the 
greatest amount of happiness which is ex- 
pected from it, I should be sorry to deny ; and 
and all I would attempt to prove in the way 
of discouragement is, that its happiness will 
often prove to be of a different kind from 
what has been anticipated.’ All that has been 
expected to be enjoyed from the indulgence 
of selfishness, must then of necessity be left 
-out of our calculations, with all that ministers 
to the pride of superiority, all that gratifies the 
love of power, all that converts the woman 
into the heroine, as well as all that renders 
her an object of general interest and at- 
traction. 

It may very naturally be asked, what then 
remains? TI answer, the love of married life ; 
and in this answer is embodied the richest 
treasure which this earth affords. All other 
kinds of love hold by a very slender tenure 
the object of supreme regard; but here the 
actual tie is severed only by the stroke of 
death, while mutual interest, instead of weak- 
ening, renders it more secure. The love of 
a parent for a child, natural, and pure, and 
holy as it is, can never bind that child beyond 
a certain period within its influence; while 
the love of a child for a parent must necessa- 
rily be interrupted in the course of nature, by 
the dissolution of its earthly hold. The love 
of a brother or a sister must ever be ready to 
give place to dearer claims $ and that of a 
friend, though “ very precious” while it lasts, 
has no real security for its continuance. And 
yet all these, according to the. laws which 
regulate our being, in their own place and 
measure, supply the natural craving of the 
human heart for something beyond itself, 


which it may call its own, and in the certainty 
of possessing which, it may implicitly re- 
pose. | 

Nor is that sage philosophy, which would 
deny the existence of this craving, or make 
light of its requirements. There is no moody 
misanthrope, however solitary the lot he 
chooses for himself, but cherishes within the 
secret of his soul, some yearning thought of 
how he might have been, and could have, 
loved. There is no agitator of public move- 
ments, hardened and sharpened by the fierce 
contact of contending interests, but seeks 
some chosen spot of rest, where the cold ar- 
mor of his selfishness may be thrown off, 
before that being whose hand has been ac- 
customed to pour into his breast the balm of 
sympathy and love. ‘There is no outcast 
from the holier-walks of life, no victim of its 
cruel vices, no maligner of religion and its 
sacred institutions, but acknowledges, at 
times, a secret impulse to cling to something 
more kind, more gentle, and less degraded 
than himself. 

Nor is it only in our human sympathies 
that this craving is developed. The tame 
bird, or the pet lamb, is folded to the solitary 
bosom of the neglected child, with as intense 
a feeling, as if it knew the thoughts of tender- 
ness pent up and aching there. The miser, || 
whose grovelling soul is alike at enmity with 
God and man, enters his narrow cell, and, 
calling to his side his faithful dog, smiles on 
the unconscious animal with a look which at 
once reveals the history of his wasted heart. 
And strange to say, it is sometimes even thus 
with ambition, and with many of those aims 
and occupations which absorb man’s life. 
They are followed, not for the results they 
bring, so much as for the promises they offer 
—for the vague hopes they hold out, that 
their entire accomplishment will satisfy the 
cravings of an insatiable soul. 

But, perhaps, more than in any other case, 
is it thus with literary fame, in the pursuit of 
which how many are urged on by a strong, 
though it may seem to some a fanciful im- 
pression, that the voice of feeling which has 
failed to find an echo in its own immediate 


sphere, may, in the wide world through which 
it is sent forth, touch in some unknown 
breast a sympathetic chord, and thus awaken 
a responsive emotion. 

But if with man, the most powerful and 
independent of created beings, there ever ex- 
ists this want of spiritual reliance and com- 
munion, what must it be to the weaker heart 
of woman, to find one earthly hold after an- 
other giving way, and to look around upon 
the great wilderness of life, in which she 
stands unconnected, and consequently alone ? 
If there be one principle in woman’s nature 
stronger than all others, it is that which 
prompts her to seek sympathy and protection 
from some being whom she may love, and 
by whom she may be loved in return. The 
influence of fashion is, perhaps, of all others 
to which the female sex is exposed, the most 
hardening to the heart—the most chilling to 
its warm and genuine emotions. Yet I much 
question whether the successful candidate 
for public admiration, would not sometimes 
willingly retire from the splendid circle in 
which she is the centre of attraction, to re- 
ceive in private the real homage of one un- 
sophisticated, noble, and undivided heart. 
Having failed in this, woman’s first and most 
excusable ambition, how often does she go 
forth into the world, to waste upon the cold 
and polished surface of society, those capa- 
bilities of thought and feeling which might, 
if more wisely directed, have made a happy 
home ; and how often is she compelled to 
look, appalled and horror-struck, upon the 
utter emptiness of the reward which follows 
this expenditure, when the same outlay. ina 
different, soil, and under happier culture, 
might have enabled her to gather into her bo- 
som a hundred fold the richer fruits of con- 
fidence and affection ! 

It is only in the married state that the 
boundless capabilities of woman’s love can 
be fully known or appreciated. There may, 
in other situations, be occasional instances of 
heroic self-sacrifice, and devotion to an earth- 


ly object ; but it is only here that the lapse 


of time, and the familiar occasions of every 
day, can afford opportunities of exhibiting 


THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 


the same spirit, operating through all those 
minor channels, which flow like fertilizing 
rills through the bosom of every family, 
where the influence of woman is alike happy 
in its exercise, and enlightened in its charac- 
ter. 

Out of all which our first parents sacri- 
ficed when they lost their high estate, it was 
mercifully permitted them to retain their 
mutual love; and it is possible to imagine 
that the mother cf mankind, even when look- 
ing her last upon that Eden whose flowers 
her care had tended, would turn to the com- 
panion of her banishment with a deeper and 
more fervent appeal to his sympathy and af- 
fection, than she ever could have felt the 
need of, in those bowers of beauty where a 
leaf was never seen to fade. Thus out of 
her very weakness, and from among the 
many snares which have beset the path of 
woman since that day of awful doom, has 
arisen a more intense desire, and a more ur- 
gent need, for the support of a stronger na- 
ture, with which her own can mingle, until 
it almost loses the bitter consciousness of 
having forfeited all claim to be still an inhab- 
itant of Paradise. 

Lest, however, the temptations to this for- 
getfulness should stand between her and the 
necessity there is to seek a higher and a ho- 
lier rest, there has fallen on her earthly lot 
some shadows, which the light of earthly love 
is not sufficient to dispel. Even love itself 
has sometimes. failed ; and, worse than all, in 
her own bosom has become extinguished. 

In order to know how to avert this calam- 
ity, it is necessary to endeavor to look calm- 
ly and dispassionately at the subject in every 
point of view to dispel the visions of imagi- 
nation, and to ask what is the real cause of 
failure, where woman has so much at stake. 

Love may arise spontaneously, but it does 
not continue to exist without some care and 
culture. In a mind whose ideas are all float- 
ing at large, and whose emotions of feeling 
or affection are left to the prompting of im- 
pulse, unrestrained by the discipline or rea- 
son, there will naturally arise strange wander- 
ing thoughts, which will be likely at any 


48 


THE WIVES UF ENGLAND. 


unguarded moment to undermine so frail a 
fabric, as love »under such circumstances 
must ever be. 

One tendency in the mind of the ‘married 
woman who has thus neglected the govern- 
ment of her own feelings, will be, on every 
occasion of momentary vexation or dissatis- 
faction, to compare her husband with other 
men to his disadvantage ; than which noth- 
ing can be more dangerous, or more incon- 
sistent with that faithfulness which ought 
ever to be a leading characteristic in the love 
of married life. Nor ‘can ‘any thing well be 
more impolitic or absurd; since there is no 
human being, however excellent, who ‘may 
not, in some’ way or other, be made to suffer 
by comparison with others. Besides which, 
what right have we, as frail and erring crea- 
tures, to aspire, in this connection, to an alli- 

ance with a being entirely faultless, or even 
| more perfect than ourselves? 

If then there should occasionally arise feel- 
ings of disappointment and dissatisfaction, as 
the lapse of time and a nearer acquaintance 
develop a husband’s faults, it is good to bear 
in mind that the same exposure of your'own, 
from the same cause, must necessarily have 
taken place ; and by often dwelling upon this 
view of the subject, a degree of charitable 
feeling will be excited, more calculated to 
humble and chasten the heart, than toembit- 
ter it against the failings of another. 

Still there are frequent provocations of tem- 
per, which some men through ignorance, and 
others from perverseness, or the love of pow- 
er, are not over scrupulous to avoid ; and 
these, to an irritable temperament, are often 
more trying than greater deviations from 
what is strictly right. 

Against the petulance and occasional re- 
sentment which an accumulation of these 
trials call forth, there is one great and solemn 
consideration, by which a woman of right 
feeling may, at any time, add sufficient 
weight to the! balance in her husband’s: favor 
—she may think of his death, of the emotions 
with which she would receive his last fare- 
well, and of what would be her situation if 


deprived at'once of ‘his love, his advice, and | 


in our privileged land, where the established 


his protection. ‘We are all'perhaps too little 
accustomed ‘to such ‘thoughts as these, ex- 
cept where illness or accident places them 
immediately before us. “Weare too muchin 
the habit of looking upon the thread of life 
with us, as far more likely to be broken first, 
and of thinking that the stronger frame must 
necessarily endure the longest. But one 
realizing thought thatthe sentence of wid- 
owed loneliness ‘may possibly be ours—how 
does it sweep away, as by a single breath, 
the mist of little imperfections which had 
gathered around a beloved form, and reveal 
tous atone glance the manly beauties of a 
noble, or'a generous character ! 


Even beauties’ less than these—the kind 


look, the cordial welcome, the patient answer, 
the mild forbearance, the gentle and familiar 
acts of every day which never-tiring affection 
prompted, and the smile which beamed upon 
us perhaps when we. deserved it least—all 
these come back, and live before us, as often 
as we think of the possibility of losing them 
forever. And it is good to have the heart 
thus softened and subdued—-thus made to 
feel how completely the petty provocations of 


each day wouid vanish from our minds, if we © 


stood by the dying couch of him who never 


offended but in little things, and heard the © 
parting benediction of the friend who would | 
fain leave behind him a blessing, which his — 
living presence had failed to bestow. 

It is an unspeakable privilege enjoyed by — 


the women of England, that in the middle 
ranks of life, a married woman, however 
youthful or attractive, if her own manners 
are unexceptionable, is seldom, or never, ex- 
posed to the attentions of men, so-as. to lead 
her affections out of their proper channel. 

How much is gained in domestic and so- 
cial happiness by this exemption from cus- 
toms which prevail on the continent, it is here 
unnecessary to attempt to describe; for I 
cannot imagine ‘there is any right-minded 
woman, still less: any Christian wife, who 


does not number it‘among the peculiar bless-— 


ings of her:country, and her sex. Yet-even 


rules of society are: somuch more favorable 


Se 


re een mo 


than in others, to the purity of social morals, 
| and the sanctity of home-enjoyments, there 
-may occasionally occur an attempted devia- 
tion from these rules, on the part of ignorant 
or unprincipled men. In all such cases, how- 
ever, the slightest approach to undue fami- 
liarity is easily repelled, by such a look and 
manner, as all women know how to make 
use of in discountenancing what is not ac- 
ceptable ; and even in more trifling cases, or 
where the temptation to be agreeable over- 
comes the inclination to be otherwise, I be- 
lieve that a frank and easy manner of speak- 
ing of a husband with respect and evident 
affection, would answer every purpose of 
putting a stop to such advances; while, on 
the other hand, nothing can be more likely to 
invite them, than speaking in complaining 
terms either of a husband, or of his behavior 
towards yourself. 

But the surest safeguard both at home and 
abroad, and the truest test by which to prove 
the propriety of every look, and act, and 
word, when mixing in the society of other 
men, is a sincere and faithful love for the 
companion of your choice. Without this, it 
would be vain to lay down rules by which a 
wandering fancy might be kept in check. 
An enlightened conscience alone, in such a 
case, can point out exactly how to act; while 
with this love, there needs no other guide. 
It is itself so pure, so constant, and so true, 
that conscience only echoes oe its gues 
voice approves. 

And now, having thus loved your husband, 
and cast in your lot with his—having chosen 
his portion, his people, and his God for yours, 
itis meet that you should love him to the 
last. It is true, there are cases where a 
gradual deterioration of character, or a sud- 
den fall from moral rectitude, renders affec- 
tion the last offering a stranger would think 
it possible to make at such a shrine; but if 
others turn away repelled, there is the more 
need for such a man, that his wife should 
love him still—there is the more need that 
one friend should remain to be near him in 
his moments of penitence, if such should 
ever come; or to watch the lingering light of 


49 


better days, so as if possible to kindle it once 
more into a cheerful and invigorating flame. 

Of all the states of suffering which have 
ever swelled the ocean of human tears, there 
is none in the smallest degree comparable to 


the situation of such a wife; yet, as if by 


some law of nature, which raises the sweet- 
est flowers from out the least apparently con- 
genial soil, it is here that we so often see the 
character of woman developed in all its love- 
liest and noblest attributes. It is here that 
we see to what an almost superhuman height 
that character can rise, when stripped of its 
vanity, and divested of its selfishness. Alas! 
that she should wait for the chastening of a 
cruel scourge, before she will even aspire to 
that perfection of moral beauty of which her 
nature is capable! 

If to love the vicious, or the degraded, 
were necessarily to love their vices too, it 
would be a melancholy picture to see an 
amiable woman falling into such a snare. 
But though unquestionably too many do this, 
and sometimes almost unconsciously assimi- 
late themselves with vice, either from con- 
stant association with what is evil, or from 
the habit of referring their own judgment of 
right and wrong to that of a polluted and de- 
graded mind; there are others who, with the 
nicest discrimination, and with the clearest 
convictions on these points, go on from day 
to day beholding what they hate, in the most 
intimate connection with what they love. 

While contemplating the fate of such, our 
only consolation is to compare their situation 
as it is, with what it would be, were there no 
channel open to mercy and to hope, for the 
outpourings of a heavily laden heart through 
the medium of prayer. Friends bring no 
comfort, earth holds no consolation for those 
who weep such tears; yet often in the depth 
of their affliction have they been enabled to 
own and bless the chastening of a Father’s 
hand, and to feel that in that very ‘chas- 
tening there was love ! 


But it is time to turn our attention to that | 
portion of the love of married life, which be- | 
longs more especially to the other sex; and 
here the first thing to be observed is, that no 


—.. °° 


THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 


———— 


' 


paratively few of his, and of these perhaps 


50 


man’s heart can be said to be really gained 
before his marriage. He may be the most 
obsequious of beaux, the most flattering of 
admirers, and even the most devoted of lov- 
ers; but his affection has not been tried in 
the way which brings it to the severest test. 
It is true it may have been tried by absence, 
by caprice, by coldness, or neglect; but it 
has yet to be tried by the security of entire 
possession ; by the monotony of sameness ; 
and, I grieve to add, too often by the neglect 
of those personal attractions by which it was 
at first so studiously invited. 
How little do women think of this, when, 
by the security of the marriage tie, they are 
rendered careless of the preservation of the 


richest jewel in their bridal wreath, and one | 


which never yet was secured to its possessor 
by any outward bond! How little do they 
reflect, that while it is the natural tendency 
of woman’s heart to become more tenderly 
attached to the being with whom she is thus 
associated, it is not so with that of man! 
And thus it becomes the study of a life, to 
retain in all its freshness and its beauty, the 
precious gem committed to their trust. 

Nor should we murmur that it is so.. For 
once possessed ‘of this inestimable treasure, 
and secure of its continuance, what should 
we aspire to beyond our present state? 
Even as things are, we see a marked neglect 
in the behavior of some wives; as if their 
husbands were equally bound to love, as to 
protect them. What then would be the de- 
gree of carelessness prevailing among wo- 
men, if this were really the case, and if the 
heart of man invariably, and of necessity, 
went along with his duty as a husband! 

Happily for our sex, however, there are 
means of securing this treasure, more effica- 
cious than the marriage vow; and among 
these, I shall mention first, the desirable- 
ness of not being too requiring. It must 
ever be borne in mind, that man’s love, even 
in its happiest exercise, is not like woman’s; 
for while she employs herself through every 
hour, in fondly weaving one beloved image 
into all her thoughts; he gives to her com- 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


neither the loftiest nor the best. His highest 
hopes and. brightest energies, must ever be 
expected to expend themselves upon the 
promotion of some favorite scheme, or the 
advancement of some public measure; and 
if with untiring satisfaction he turns to her || 
after the efforts of the day have been com- | 
pleted ; and weary, and perhaps dispirited, | 
comes back to pour into her faithful bosom } 
the history of those trials which the world | 
can never know, and would not pity if it | 
could; if she can thus supply to the extent | 
of his utmost wishes, the sympathy and the | 
advice, the confidence and the repose, of || 
which he is in need, she will have little cause || 
to think herself neglected. | 

It is a wise beginning, then, for every mar- || 
ried woman to make up her mind to be for- | 
gotten through the greater part of every day; | 
to make up her mind to many rivals too in | 
her husband’s attentions, though not in his |} 
love; and among these, I would mention | 
one, whose claims it is folly to dispute ; since 
no remonstrances or representations on her } 
her part will ever be able to render less at- 
tractive the charms of this competitor. I 
mean the newspaper, of whose absorbing in- | 
terest some wives are weak enough to evince 
a sort of childish jealousy, when they ought | 
rather to congratulate themselves that their 
most formidable rival is one of paper. 

The same observations apply perhaps in a | 
more serious manner to those occuv-anons | 
which lead men into public life. If the ob- | 
ject be to do good, either by correcting | 
abuses, or forwarding benevolent designs, | 
and not merely to make himself the head of 
a party, a judicious and right-principled wo- | 
man will be too happy for her husband to be | 
instrumental in a noble cause, to put in com- 
petition with his public efforts, any loss she 
may sustain in personal attention or domestic 
comfort. | : 

A system of persecution perseveringly car- | 
ried on against such manly propensities as 
reading the newspaper, or even against the | 
household derangements necessarily accom. |! 
panying attention to public business, has the | 
worst possible effect upon a husband’s tem- | 


per, and general state of feeling. So much 
so, that I am inclined to, think a greater 
amount of real love has been actually teased 
away, than ever was destroyed by more di- 
rect, or more powerfully operating means. 

The same system of teasing is sometimes 
most unwisely kept up, for the purpose of 
calling forth a succession of those little per- 
sonal attentions, which, if not gratuitously 
rendered, are utterly destitute of value, and 
ought never to be required. 

To all married women, it must be gratify- 
ing to receive from a husband just so much 
attention as indicates a consciousness of her 

presence ; but with this acknowledgment, ex- 
pressed in any manner which may be most 
congenial to her husband’s tastes and habits, 
a woman of true delicacy would surely be 
satisfied without wishing to stipulate for more. 

Still less would she annoy him with an ex- 

hibition of her own fondness, under the idea 
| of its being necessarily returned in kind. It 
is a holy, and a blessed mystery, from the 
secrets of which, in its mastery ower the hu- 
man mind, almost all women who have ever 
been beloved, have learned the power of their 
own tenderness; but in proportion to the 
purity of its nature, and the sacredness of its 
exercise, is its capability of being abused and 
| degraded. Thus, all exhibition of fondness 
before a third party, may justly be looked 
upon as indicating a total ignorance of the 
intensity, and the purity, of that which alone 
deserves the name of love; while, could one 
imagine the possibility of such a thing, all ex- 
ercise of this fondness made use of for the 
purpose of obtaining advantage over a hus- 
band’s judgment or inclination, could only be 
supposed to arise out of the meanest impulse 
of a low, an artful, and a degraded mind. 
But we cannot for a moment imagine such 
things really are. We cannot believe that a 
woman conscious of her personal attractions, 
| could hang about her husband’s neck, or 
weep, or act the impassioned heroine, for the 
base purpose of inducing him to make some 
concession, which in his calmer moments he 
could not be prevailed upon to grant. No, 
the true heart of woman knows too well, that 


| 


THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 


| gain a selfish end; but was permitted her for 


51 


that sweet gift of heaven, granted in consid- 
eration to her weakness, was never meant to 
be made use of as an instrument of power to 


the high and holy purpose of softening the 
harder and more obdurate nature of man, so 
as to render it capable of impressions upon 
which the seal of eternity might be set. 

It requires much tact, as well as delicacy, 
to-know how to render expressions of endear- 
ment at all times appropriate, and conse- 
quently acceptable; and as love is far too 
excellent a thing to be wasted, and tender- 
ness too precious to be thrown away, a sen- 
sible woman will most scrupulously consult 
her husband’s mood and temper in this re- 
spect, as well as remember always the con- 
sideration due to her own personal attrac- 
tions ; for, without some considerable portion 
of these advantages, it will be always safest 
not to advance very far, unless there should 
be clear and direct encouragement to do so. 
Pitiful pictures have been drawn in works of 
fiction of the hopelessness of efforts of this 
nature ; but one would willingly believe them 
to be confined to fiction only, for there is hap- 
pily, in most enlightened female minds, an 
intuitive perception on these points, by which 
they may discover almost instantaneously 
from a look, a tone, a touch responsive to. 
their own, how far it may be desirable to go, 
and by what shadow they ought to be warn-. 
ed, as well as by what ray of light they ought 
to be encouraged. | 

It may be easily imagined how an ignorant, 
or selfish woman, never can be able to un- 
derstand all this, and how she may conse- 
quently make shipwreck of her husband’s 
happiness, and her own peace, simply from 
never having known, observed, or felt, what 
belongs to the nature of the human heart in 
these its most exquisite touches of light and 
shade; while, on the other hand, not the 
highest intellectual attainments, with the no- 
blest gifts of nature, nor all the importance 
and distinction which these attributes obtain 
for their possessor in the world, will be able 
to efface for a moment the delicate percep- 
tions of a truly sensitive woman, or to render 


52 


her in the deep and fervent love of which 
she is capable, otherwise than humble, and 
easily subdued; especially when she comes 
with childlike simplicity to consult the dial 
of her husband’s love, and to read there the 
progress of the advancing or receding shad- 
ows, which indicate her only true position, 
through the lapse of every hour. 

It is an act of injustice towards women, 
and one which often brings its own punish- 
ment upon talented men, when they select as 
their companions for life, the ignorant or the 
imbecile of the other sex, believing that be- 
cause they are so, they must be more capable 
of loving. If to be incapable of any thing else, 
implies this necessity, it must be granted that 
they are so. But of what value is that. love 
which exists as a mere impulse of nature, 
compared with that, which, with an equal 
force of impulse, combines the highest attri- 
butes of an enlightened mind, and _ brings 
them all with their rich produce, like flowers 
from a delicious garden, a welcome and ap- 
propriate offering at the shrine whereon the 
heart is laid. 

Still I must repeat, that it is not the superi- 
ority of talent, but the early and the best use 
of such as we possess, which gives this power 
and beauty to affection, by directing it to its 
appropriate end. For as in other duties of 
woman’s life, without knowledge she cannot, 
if she would, act properly ; so in the expres- 
sion and bestowment of her love, without an 


intimate acquaintance with the human heart, 


without having exercised her faculties of ob- 
servation and reflection, and without having 
obtained by early discipline some mastery 
over her own feelings, she will ever be liable 
to rush blindly upon those fatal errors, by 
which the love of married life so often has 
been wrecked. 

In connection with this subject, there is one 
consideration to which sufficient weight is sel- 
dom given; and that is, the importance of 


never trifling with affection after the nuptual 


knot is tied. To do this at any time, or in 
any way, is scarcely consistent with the feel- 
ings of a deeply sensitive and delicate mind: 
but leaving the display of caprice to those 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


who think it gives zest to the familiarity of | 
courtship, it cannot be too deeply impressed 
upon the female mind, that with the days of 
courtship it must end. 

There are innumerable tests which might 
be applied to the love of married life, so as to 
ascertain the degree of its intensity, or the 
progress of its declension; but who would | 
wish to apply them t—or who, even if they | 
did, would dare to make so critical an ex- 
periment? If there be any cause for its exist- 
ence, the consciousness comes soon enough, 
that the wife is not all to her husband which 
the flattering promises of early love prepared 
her to expect; and if there be no cause for 
the slightest shadow of suspicion that her 
star is beginning to go down, why trouble her 
own repose, and that of her husband, by 
questioning the reality of what it would be: 
worse than death to doubt? 

All teasing, all caprice, all acting, for the 
purpose of renewing an agreeable effect, are 
therefore inimical to the mutual trust, and | 
the steady confidence in reciprocal affection, 
which are, or ought to be, enjoyed by indi- 
viduals thus bound together by an indissolu- 
ble tie. Not that the writer would for a mo- 
ment wish to discountenance that harmless 
vivacity with which some women know so 
well how to charm; or to speak of the priva- 
cy of married life as consistirtg of dull and - 
sombre scenes. So far from this, it is her 
firm belief, that nothing tends more to ani- 
mate and renew the feeling of affection in 
the mind of man, than the cheerfulness of 
his fireside companion. 

It is here, then, that the display of native 
wit and humor may be enjoyed with the 
greatest zest, for here it is safe; and the hus- 
band who comes home to’have his spirit re- 
freshed by an easy, natural, and well-timed 
description of the amusing incidents which 
have taken place during his absence, will not 
be the most likely to prefer another fireside to 
his own. 

Even in illness, but especially when laboring 
only under a slight degree of indisposition, by 
those who have made cheerfulness a familiar 
habit, much may be done to prevent the dou- 


THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 


ble burden of sickness and sorrow falling up- 
on a husband at once. 

There is a vast difference between being 
| as ill as you can be, and as well as you can 
be. To aim at the latter rather than the 
former, is the duty of every one, but espe- 
cially of the married woman, the great busi- 
ness of whose life is to soothe and cheer, not 
to depress, to weary, or to annoy. If there- 
fore, before marriage, she has been deluded 
| into the notion that a multiplicity of little ail- 
| ments invested her character with an inter- 
esting kind of delicacy ; the sooner she be- 
| comes perfectly well after marriage, the better 
| it will be for herself, and for all around her. 

Lest, however, the liberty of these remarks 
should appear to touch unkindly those who 
are really afflicted, I must refer the reader for 
a proof of what may be done in the way of 
bearing pain with cheerfulness and resigna- 
tion, to those many beautiful instances which 
adorn the history of woman, where her own 
sufferings appear to be forgotten in the inten- 
sity of her desire to make others happy. 
And here again we see the necessity of hav- 
ing made such acts of self-sacrifice habitual. 
No human being, however great the moment- 
ary effort, can practise this kind of self-gov- 
ernment, or consistently exercise this degree 
of generosity, merely from the force of tran- 
sient impulse; and when the greater claims 
upon the attention of a wife render illness to 
her a more painful and trying ordeal than it 
has ever been before, she will feel the greater 
need of having practised, in her early years, 
| the habit of so far restraining the expression 
| of personal feeling, as by making the best of 
| her afflictions, and gratefully embracing such 
oppurtuuides of enjoyment as still remain, to 
b. able to render it not an irksome duty, but 
a privilege, to be near her in sickness and suf- 


| 
fering. 


It is a great pity when those trials which 
render affection so essential to our support, 
should be made the means of driving it away. 
Nor is it at all necessary that this should be 
the case with men; for there is a kindness, 
and a forbearance, mingled with their higher 
virtues, which sometimes elicits from them 


ere 


53 


the most devoted and delicate attentions in 
the season of illness; and all who have ex- 
perienced, and felt the real value of such at- 
tentions, will estimate them too highly, to be 


| willing that a habit of fretful or unnecessary 


complaining should thus deprive the hour of 
suffering of its greatest earthly consolation. 

It would not be just, even if it were possi- 
ble, to speak on this subject, and to leave un- 
marked by expressions of gratitude and ad- 
miration, the gentle kindness and untiring 
patience, with which some men can devote 
themselves to the duties of a sick-room; or 
how, by their superior strength, added some- 
times to a higher degree of tenderness and 
delicacy, they can render those services to a 
weak or suffering wife, which nothing but the 
love of married life can either purchase or 
repay. But though one would willingly, for- 
give the wife, who for the gratification afford- 
ed by such kindness, would almost wish to 
suffer, it must ever be remembered, that not 
by complaining of every little ache and pain, 
is such kindness to be purchased; but by 
bearing, with sweetness and serenity, those 
trials which the all-wise Disposer of human 
events sees meet to inflict. 

It is in seasons such as these, that the per- 


fect identity originating in the marriage bond, | 


is most deeply felt—that identity which gives 
a spiritual nature to an earthly union. It is 
true we are told there is no such thing as 
giving in marriage in heaven; but we are 
left to enjoy the happiness of believing, that 
there is something almost heavenly in the 
“marriage of true minds’”—something which 
brings us nearer, than any other circumstance 
in this sublunary state, to an apprehension 
of what must be the enjoyment of those re- 


gions of felicity, where all existences are 


blended into one, and where the essential 
principle of that one is love. 

Nor is it the least wonderful property be- 
longing to this drop of sweetness in life’s 


great ocean, that it can exist almost inde- . 


pendently of outward circumstances. How 
many of the hapless inheritors of poverty 
and suffering have nothing else; and yet 
their lot is scarcely to be called bitter, so long 


eee 


\ 


$e 


rr SE AE 


LSE OE TTS A I A A nee 


Loe. 


as they have this. On the other hand, how 


many a’ desolate but jewelled brow, would 
doff its envied wreath, for the privilege of 
sharing this enjoyment with one who was 


| equally loving and beloved! 


Let us not, however, fall into the romantic 
notion, that outward circumstances have no- 
thing to do with the maintenance of this 
strong feeling of identity. Poverty of itself, 
or privation in the abstract, would probably 
never be able to shake the foundation of 
man’s love, or woman’s either; but such is 
the complicated texture of the human mind, 
that no single portion of suffering or enjoy- 
ment exists to us alone, but each draws 
along with it a train of associating links, by 


| which it is connected sometimes with what is 
| most heterogeneous and dissimilar to its own 


nature. Thus it is the manner in which pov- 
erty is borne, which so frequently constitutes 


|| the greatest trial of love—the mutual com- 


plainings, recriminations, and _ suspicions, 
which it calls forth ; not its suffering, its des- 
titution, and its abasement, for under these it 
is within the province of love to support and 
to console ; and, on the other hand, it is the 
vanity, the dissipation, and the diversity of 


| interests excited by circumstances of extra- 


ordinary prosperity, which often prove fatal 
to the love of married life; when the wider 
range of duties and privileges, belonging to 
an exalted station, might have constituted a 
stronger bond of sympathy between individ- 
uals thus elevated together. 

Thus the fault is not in the love of mar- 
ried life, that it gives way so often under the 
trial of outward circumstances; but in the 
power so frequently brought to bear against 
it, from the wrong feelings which circum- 
stances are allowed to call into action. 

Of man’s love it must ever be remembered 
too, that if once destroyed, it is destroyed for- 
ever. Woman has the strong power of her 
sympathy and her imagination, by which in- 
terest can be re-awakened, and the past can 
be made to live again; but the nature of 
man’s affection admits of no very potent 
stimulus from such causes. When once his 
tenderness toward the object of his affection 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


is extinguished, his love may too truly be 
said to have lost its bloom, its freshness, and 
its intensity. A sense of duty may still sup- 
ply what propriety requires, and a feeling 
that his doom is fixed may prevent any great 
expenditure of thought in sad and unavailing 
regrets; but who that has looked “on this 
picture and on that”—who that has observed 
the dull and leaden aspect presented by mar- 
ried life under these circumstances, could 
contemplate with equanimity of mind, the 
possibility of its succeeding in the place of 
that bright and glowing picture first brought 
to light by the early promise of mutual love ? 

It should then be the first and last study of 
every married woman, to preserve this pic- 
ture in all its purity, and all its freshness; 
remembering ever that it is not from the 
great and stirring accidents of time, that the 
most danger is to be apprehended; but that 
sometimes— . 

“ A word unkind or wrongly taken; 

Or Love, which tempest never shook, 
A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.” 

It is not, therefore, by exemption from out- 
ward calamity, that woman can preserve this 
treasure of her life; but by maintaining | 
through all the little incidents of daily inter- 
course a true and faithful heart towards her 
husband—true in its own affections—true also 
to the various requirements of human nature | 
—and true in its attachment to his interests, || 
both as they relate to time and to eternity. 


CHAPTER VII. 
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 


Ir in describing the domestic happiness of 
English homes, the love of married life were 
all which had to be dwelt upon, the task of 
the writer would be like that of one who en- ' 
ters a garden for no other purpose than to 
cull the flowers; but as among the fairest 
productions of nature, the intrusion of noxious 
weeds must ever be anticipated ; so among 
the brighter scenes of human life, dark pas- 


| 


TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 


sages must occasionally be expected; and 
happy will it be if they only appear like pass- 
ing clouds over the landscape, leaving the 
aspect of the whole more vivid and beautiful, 
for the trifling interruption to its sameness 
and repose. 

That married life has its peculiar trials, it 
would imply great ignorance of the actual 
state of human affairs to attempt to disprove ; 
and while we gladly admit the fact, that it is 
possible to be happier in this state, than any 
human being can be alone; we must also 
bear in mind, that it is possible to be more 
miserable too—perhaps for this very reason, 
that the greatest trials connected with this 
state of existence, are such as cannot be told, 
and therefore such as necessarily set the suf- 
ferer apart from all human sympathy and 
consolation. Many of these, however, may 
be greatly ameliorated by a willingness to 
meet them in a proper way; but more es- 
pecially, by an habitual subjection of self to 
the interests and the happiness of others. 

Among the trials. peculiar to married life, 
we will first speak of those of temper; and 
here it is necessary to refer again to the 
common delusion prevailing among young 
women, which leads them to look forward to 
the time of marriage, as the opening of a 
scene of unlimited indulgence, where -every 
wish will be consulted, and every inclination 
gratified to its full extent, and where con- 
sequently it will be impossible that offences 
should ever come. 

It requires but litile reflection to perceive, 
that even if the husband had been sincere in 
all the promises, which as a lover he held 
forth, it would not be in his power to render 
the lot of any woman one of uninterrupted 
enjoyment; for however faithfully his own 
part might be fulfilled, it would still be the 
inevitable consequence of thus setting out 
together in the serious business of conducting 
a household, that circumstances should press 


| upon both, so as either to thwart their incli- 


nations, or berid them to submission. Be- 
yond these, however, it must be allowed, that 


| there are no trials of temper arising out of 


the cross occurrences incident to family af- 


fairs, at all to be compared with those which 
belong to the close intercourse of persons of 
dissimilar habits bound together for life. 

It is a curious fact, that however irritable 
the temper may be, a stranger has compara- 
tively no power to ruffle it; while, on the 
other hand, the closer the intimacy, the 
greater is the liability both to pain and pro- 


vocation, where that intimacy is made use of 


as a key to the secret passages of the heart. 
Hence the bland and patient smiles with 
which a stranger is sometimes listened to, 
when a sister or a brother conversing in the 
same style, would scarcely be endured; and 
hence the peevish answer sometimes be- 
stowed upon a husband, when a guest is im- 
mediately spoken to in the gentlest and most 
conciliating tone. | 

There is something, too, in the bare fact of 
being indissolubly bound together, which, in- 
stead of rendering it for that reason an ob- 
ject of supreme desire that the bondage 
should be one of silken cords, rather than one 
of weary chains, seems to produce in the 
human mind, a sort of perverse determina- 
tion to bear, whatever must be borne, as 
badly as we can. 

That the prospect of having to combat with 
any trial of temper but for a very limited space 
of time, has a peculiar effect in rendering it 
more tolerable, we have sufficient proof in 
the conduct of hired nurses, who, perhaps, 
of all human beings, have the most to put up 
with in the way of provocations of this kind. 
It cannot be supposed that persons of this 
description possess any peculiar advantages 
in the way of mental discipline, to give them 
this power of selfcommand ; nor is it a ques- 
tion of selfinterest, for of all persons, that 
would bs most likely to operate upon the 
wife; neither have they time or opportu- 
nity, in the majority of cases, for attaching 
themselves by any feelings of affection to the 
objects of their care. It is the simple fact that 
all will soon be over, and that to them it is 
ultimately of no sort of consequence, which 
enables them to bear with such amazing equa- 
nimity the trials of patience to which they 
are so frequently subjected ; while, on the 


50 | 


56 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


| other hand, the consideration that it must be 
thus, and thus always, appears at once to 
excite a spirit of resistance where resistance 
is most vain. 

But granting that there is, inherent in the 
human mind, this spirit of contradiction, and 
granting also that men, with all their dignified 
and noble attributes, are sometimes, though 
often unconsciously, indescribably provoking 
to an irritable temperament; there is one 
consideration which a generous mind will 
be ever willing to dwell upon with so much 
candor, as at least to make concessions when 
it has been betrayed into any excess of irrita- 
bility, if not wholly to submit with cheerful- 
ness and resignation to this peculiar dispen- 
sation, regarding it as among the appoint- 
ments of Providence, designed for purposes 
inscrutable perhaps to human reason, yet not 
the less in accordance with mercy, and with 
wisdom. 

But in order to judge more candidly on 
this subject, let us single out a few instances 
of the most familiar kind on both sides; and 
i if the merit of unconsciousness, and absence 
of design, does not preponderate on the side 
of man, I shall be much mistaken in my cal- 
culations. 

I have always been accustomed to con- 
sider it as the severest trial to the temper of 
a married woman, to have an idle husband; 
and if in addition to neglecting his business, 
or such manly occupations as an exemption 
from the necessities of business would leave 
him at liberty to pursue, he is personally 
idle, sitting slipshod at noontime, with his 
feet upon the fender, occasionally jarring to- 
gether the whole army of fire-irons with one 
stroke of his foot, agitated at intervals by the 
mere muscular irritation of having nothing to 
do, or not choosing to do any thing; and if 
he should happen to have chosen for his wife 
a woman of active bustling character, as such 
men not unfrequently do, I believe I must, as 
in some other instances, leave it to the reader 
to suggest some possible means by which 
such a woman may at all times control her 


temper, and keep the peace at her own fire- 
side. 


One thing, however, is certain in such a 


case—it is not by ebullitions of momentary ° 


indignation that an idle man can be stimula- 
ted into action. So far from it, he will rather 
be made worse, and rendered more obsti- 
nately idle by any direct opposition to the in- 
dulgence of his personal inclinations. What- 
ever good is to be done in such a case, can 
only be effected from the convictions of his 
own mind, brought about by the quiet opera- 
tion of affectionate and judicious reasoning ; 
for if the wife should be unguarded enough 


‘to throw out reproaches against him, repre- 


senting the disgusting nature of idleness in 
its true colors; or if she should seek to es- 
tablish her own claims to his exertions, so as 
to convey an idea of her arguments tending 
to a selfish end, she might as well 
“go kindle fire with snow,” 

as attempt to rouse her husband into healthy 
and consistent habits of activity by such 
means. 

Here, too, we might mention as pre-emi- 
nent among the trials of married life, though 
I question whether it operates so immediately 
upon the temper as some others, the ruinous 
propensity inherent in the nature of some 
men, to spend their own money, and some- 
times the money of their friends, in vague 
speculations and visionary schemes. 

The man who is possessed with this mania, 
for in certain cases it deserves no-other name, 
is neither to be convinced by argument nor 
experience, that after ninety-nine failures, he 
is not very likely to succeed the hundredth 
time; and the wife who knows that the main- 
tenance of herself and her family is entirely 
dependent upon him, has abundant need for 
supplies of strength and patience beyond 
what any earthly source can afford. 


Among other causes of irritation, and form- » 


ing reasonable ground of complaint, is the 
disposition evinced by some men to be incon- 
siderate and cruel to animals; and this I 
must think, is one of the cases in which we 
are recommended to be angry, and sin not. 
Yet even in this instance, when we look at 
the education of boys—and consider the ab- 
sence there is of all regard to the feelings of 


animals, even in the minds of the most deli- 
cate females, except where early instruction 
has given to this regard the force of princi- 
ple—great and charitable allowance ought to 
be made for the conduct of men in this re- 
spect: and perhaps the best and only means 
of remedying the evil, which any woman can 
adopt, is to bring up her children, if she be a 
mother, with higher and more enlightened 
views of the requirements of Christian duty. 

It is a well-known fact, that men in gene- 
ral appear to consider themselves justly en- 
titled to the privilege of being out of humor 
about their food. Thus the whole pleasure 
of a social meal is sometimes destroyed by 
some trifling error in the culinary department, 
or the non-appearance of some expected in- 
dulgence. But here again, our forbearance 
is called into exercise, by remembering the 
probability there is, that such men have had 
silly mothers, who made the pleasures of their 
childhood to consist chiefly of such as belong 
to the palate; and here too, if the wife can- 
not remedy this evil, and in all probability it 
will be beyond her power to do so, she may, 
by her judicious efforts to promote the wel- 
fare of the rising generation, impart to the 
youthful minds committed to her care, or 
subject to her influence, a juster estimate of 
what helongs to the true enjoyment of intel- 
lectual and immortal beings. 

With all occasions of domestic derange- 
ment, such as washing days, and other reno- 


vations of comfort and order, some men of: 


irritable temperament wage open and deter- 
mined war. But, may we not ask, in con- 
nection with this subject, whether their pre- 
judices against these household movements 
have not been remotely or immediately ex- 
cited, by the extreme and unnecessary con- 
fusion and disturbance with which they are 
too frequently accompanied ? _ For I cannot 
think that a reasonable man, on comparing 
an English home with a French one, for in- 
stance, would desire to be altogether exempt 
from such domestic purifications; and if 
properly managed, so as to interfere as little 
as possible with his personal comfort, and 
conducted with general cheerfulness and 


good humor, such a man might easily be 
brought to consider them as necessary to the 
good of his household, as the refreshing 
shower is to the summer soil. 

A causeless and habitual neglect of punctu- 
ality on the part of the master of a house, is 
certainly a grievance very difficult to bear ; 
because as he is the principal person in the 
household, and the first to be considered, the 
whole machinery of domestic management 
must necessarily be dependent upon his 
movements; and more especially, since it so 
happens, that persons who are the most ac- 
customed to keep others waiting, have the 
least- patience to wait for others. Thus it 
not unfrequently occurs, that a wife is all day 
urging on her servants to a punctual atten- 
tion to the dinner-hour appointed by her 
husband, and when that hour arrives, he has 
either forgotten it himself, or he allows some 
trifling hindrance to prevent his returning 


home until one, or perhaps two, hours later. | 


Yet the same man, though in the habit of do- 
ing this day after day, will be excessively an- 
noyed, if for once in his life he should be 
punctual to the appointed time, and not find 
all things ready on his return. 


Perhaps too the master of a family, on | 
days of household bustle, when extra busi- | 
ness has to be done, will not choose to rise | 
so early as usual; or he will sit reading the |, 
newspaper while his breakfast waits, and | 


thus keep every member of his family stand- 


ing about unoccupied, with all the business 


of the day before them. Or, he may be one 
of those who like that women should be al- 
ways ready long before the necessary time, 
and thus habitually name an hour for meet- 
ing, or setting out from home, at which he 
has not the remotest intention of being ready 
himself. 

Now, as the time of women, if properly 
employed, is too precious to be wasted, some- 
thing surely may be done, not by endeavor- 
ing to overrule the movements of such a 
man so as to make him true to his own ap- 
pointment, but by convincing him, that com- 
mon honesty requires him simply to state 
the actual time at which he does intend to 


| TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. si 


| 


58 


be ready. And here we see at once, one of 
those numerous instances in which a reason- 
| able man will listen, and endeavor to amend 5 
while an unreasonable man will either not 
listen, or not take the slightest pains to im- 
prove. 

_ Again, there are men who like the import- 
ance, and the feeling of power and decision 
which it gives them, to set out on a journey 
as if upon the spur of the moment, without 
having communicated their intentions even 
to the wife, who is most interested in making 
preparations for such a movement. And 
there are others, who when consulted about 
any thing, cannot be brought to give either 
their attention or their advice, so as to assist 
the judgment of a wife, who would gladly 
give satisfaction if she'could; yet when the 
time to act upon their advice is past, will be- 
stow their attention a little too severely upon 
the unfortunate being, who, consulting her 
own judgment as the only guide she had, 
will most probably have done exactly what 
they did not wish. 

But it would be an endless task, to go on 
enumerating instances of this description. I 
have merely mentioned these as specimens 
of the kind of daily and hourly trials which 
most women have to expect in the married 
state ; and which, as I have before stated, 
may be greatly softened down, if not entirely 
reconciled, by the consideration already al- 
luded to. Besides which, it is but candid to 
allow, that the greater proportion of these 
offences against temper and patience, origin- 
ate in one of those peculiarities in the charac- 
ter of man which I have omitted to mention 
in its proper place. I mean the incapability 
under which he labors, of placing himself in 
idea in the situation of another person, so as 
to identify his feelings with theirs, and thus 
to enter into what they suffer and enjoy; as 
if the feeling were his own. 

This capability appears to be “peculiarly a 
feminine one, and it exists among women in 
so high a degree, as to leave them little ex- 
cuse if they irritate or give offence to others ; 
because this innate power which they possess 
of identifying themselves for the moment 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


a 


with another nature, might, if they would 
use it for such a purpose, enable them not so 
much to know, as to feel, when they were 
giving pain, or awakening displeasure. Men, 
as I have just stated, are comparatively des- 
titute of this power, as well as of that of sym- 
pathy, to which it is so nearly allied. When, 
therefore, they appear to women so perverse, 
and are consequently so difficult to bear 
with, it is often from their being wholly un- 
conscious of the actual state of the case; of 
the long entanglement of- inconveniences 
which their thoughtless ways are weaving ; 
and consequently of the wounded feeling, 
disappointment, and vexation, which such 
thoughtlessness not unfrequently inflicts upon 
the weaker mind of woman, when the whole 
framework of her daily existence must be 
regulated by the movements of a husband 
who thinks of “none of these things.” 

But we have not yet sufficiently examined 
that one consideration, which ever remains 
to be weighed in the balance against the 
trials of patience arising out of the conduct 
of men. And here we must first ask—have 
you yourself no personal peculiarities exactly 
opposed to your husband’s notions of what is 
agreeable 1—such as habits of disorder, dress- 
ing in bad taste, or any other of those minor 
deviations from delicacy or good breeding, 
which he might not have had an opportunity 
of observing before marriage ? 

We all know that in men these peculiari- 
ties are of little importance, compared with 
what they are in the other sex. If, therefore, 
you offend in these things, you run imminent 
risk of impairing, by a succession of little an- 
noyances, the warmth and the intensity of 


your husband’s affection; for man’s love, it 


must ever be remembered, is far more de- 
pendent than that of woman, upon having 
the taste and the fancy always pleased, and 
consequently upon reposing with pertfect 
complacency on the object of its regard. 
Have we not all, then, abundant cause to be 
erateful for being borne with in our infirmi- 
ties, and loved in spite of our personal 
defects ? i 

But if such peculiarities as these are of 


TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 09 


sufficient importance to cast a shadow over 
the sunny spots of life, what must we say of 
some others. occasionally observable in the 
character and conduct of women, to which 
it is scarcely possible that much charity should 
/ be extendéd? And here I would ask, if you 
/have never treasured up against your hus- 
band, some standing cause of complaint, to 
be thrown at him when an opportunity is 
offered by the presence of a friend, or a 
stranger, for discharging this weapon from 
the household quiver with perfect safety to 
yourself? Have you not upon the whole pre- 
ferred having such grievances to complain 
of, rather than taking such peaceable and 
judicious measures as would be likely effect- 
ually to accomplish their removal ? 
Have. you never, in addition to this, re- 
fused an offer of personal gratification when 
it was convenient or agreeable for your hus- 
band to indulge you with it; and professed 
a somewhat exaggerated desire to accept of 
it, when the thing was impossible, or at 
least extremely difficult for your husband to 
grant? 
_ Have you never made the most of house- 
| hold troubles, spread forth the appurtenances 
| of a wash, allowed the affairs of the kitchen 
to extend themselves to the parlor, com- 
plained unnecessarily of servants and work- 
people, and appeared altogether in your own 
person more harassed, exhausted, and for- 
lorn, after your husband’s return home, than 


you did before, on purpose that he might be. 


compelled, not only to pity you, but to. bear 
a portion of your domestic discomfort him- 
self? 

When a concatenation of cross occur- 
rences, hindrances, or mistakes, have. ren- 
dered every moment one of perplexity and 
haste; have you never, when involved with 
your husband in such circumstances, added 
fuel to the fire by your own petulance, or by 
your still more provoking exclamations of 
triumph, that you “thought it would come 
to that?” Or, when your husband has re- 
turned at:an hour considerably later than he 
had appointed, have you never begun with 

breathless. haste: to. remonstrate with him, 


and even allowed your remonstrances to ex- 
tend to reproaches, before you gave him time: 
to vindicate himself, or to say whether he 
had not in reality been unavoidably detained? 

Now, it is impossible for any woman of 
right feelings to hide from her conscience, 
that if she chooses to marry, she places her- 
self under a moral obligation to make her 
husband’s home as. pleasant to him as she 
can. Instead, therefore, of behaving as if it 
was the great business.of married life to com- 
plain, it is her peculiar duty as a wife, and 
one for which, by her natural constitution, 
she is especially fitted, to make all her do- 
mestic concerns, appear before her husband 
to the very best advantage. She has time 
for her troubles and turmoils, if such things 
must necessarily be, a fact which I ama little 
disposed to question, when her husband is 
absent, or when she is engaged exclusively 
in her own department; and if she would 
make his home what it ought to be to him— 
“an ever-sunny place,” she will studiously 
shield him, as. with the wings of love, from 
the possibility of feeling that his. domestic an- 
noyances give weight and poignancy to those 
more trying perplexities, which most men, 
engaged either in business, or in public af- 
fairs, find more than sufficient for their peace 
of mind. ; 

By those who write on the subject of tem- 
per in connection with the happiness of mar- 
ried life, much is generally said by way of 
giving weight to the importance of guarding 
against the first angry word. But though it 
is unquestionably most desirable to keep the 
tablet of experience as long unsullied as we | 
can, I do not see exactly how this rule ap- 
plies more to offences of temper, than to any: 
other transgressions of the law of perfect love ; 
for if it be felt, as it must be, a breach of this 
law to utter an unkind expression ; it is equal- 
ly so to allow any evidence to appear of a 
disposition to act counter to a husband’s 
wishes, or even to forget or neglect what he 
considers: essential to his comfort. 

Indeed, so. various are the circumstances 


to which any remarks upon the subject of 


temper must apply, that the best possible plan 


60 


which could be proposed for maintaining 
harmony and good feeling in one instance, 
might be the worst in another. As a case in 
point, there are unquestionably some individ- 
uals so constituted, that if in a moment of 
irritation, they do not speak out, the smoth- 
ered feeling forcibly pent up, assumes with 
them the character of sullenness, and even 
approaches to that of dislike towards the of- 
fender. Besides which, we should never 
know when we did. offend, and might conse- 
quently go on to the end of life inflicting per- 
petual annoyance upon our fellow-creatures, 
if there were no outward evidence of the de- 
gree of displeasure which our inadvertences 
were causing. 

Not that I would by any means be guilty 
of recommending an approach to those vio- 
lent outpourings of heated and impassioned 
feeling, which mark out some of the darkest 
passages of human life, by the remembrance, 
never to be obliterated, of angry and cruel 
expressions not possible to be often repeated 
without destroying the tenderness, and even 
the very life, of love. What I would say on 
the other side of the question, is simply this 
—that in reference to temper, no general rule 
can be laid down, scarcely can any human 
aid be called in, because of the diversity of 
dispositions upon which the influence of tem- 
per operates, and the difficulty to mere hu- 
man reason of discovering exactly what is 
best for every case. In this, as in every other 
instance of human frailty, it is the power of 
religion upon the heart and conduct, which 
alone can afford any lasting or effectual help. 

And after all, as the subject bears upon the 
affection of human beings one towards an- 
other, with creatures frail as we are, and in 
a state of existence so imperfect as the pre- 
sent, it is not by an exemption from all 
offences that the purity or the strength of 
human love can be maintained ; but far more 
so by mutual forgiveness, by sympathy with 
each other’s infirmities, and by the constant 
exercise of that charity which thinketh no evil, 
and which suffereth long, and is kind. 

But leaving all further consideration of the 
trials of temper, as a subject which from its 


es: 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


endless variety might rather be made to fill 
volumes than pages; we must turn to sub-. 
jects of a more serious and alarming nature, 
and among these, it cannot be out of place to 
speak first of the deterioration of a husband’s 
character, as taking precedence of other trials 
incident to married life. 

I have already said there can be no calam- 
ity in the vast catalogue of human miseries, 
at all comparable to watching the gradual 
extinction of that guiding light from the moral 
influence of a husband, to which a wife might 
reasonably be allowed to look for her greatest 
earthly encouragement in every effort to ad- 
here to the dictates of duty, or the require- 
ments of Christian principle. Here, then, it 
becomes most important to inquire, what can | 
be done to stem the tide of evil, before it shall 
have borne away the whole fabric of domes- 
tic happiness. 

A true-hearted woman, herself impressed 
with the importance of moral and religious 
principle, will ever be most studious of her 
husband’s safety in this respect; and if her 
own character, and her own example, are 
such as to give weight to her remonstrances, 
there is no calculating the degree to which 
her influence may not extend. Women, too, 
are often remarkably quick-sighted to the 
minor shades of good and evil; and they are 
thus sometimes enabled to detect a lurking 
tendency to what is wrong, before the mind 
of man is awakened to suspicion. Even in 
business, then, and in all affairs in which men 
are most liable to be deluded by self-interest, 
and by the prevailing customs of the world, 
and thus are too frequently betrayed into 
transactions at variance with the spirit, if not 
with the letter, of the law of just and honora- 
ble dealing; a right-minded woman may 
sometimes so place before her husband the 
affair in which he is engaged, as to make 
him see at once the error into which he 
might have fallen; and having seen this 
clearly, she may possibly enjoy the satisfac- 
tion of beholding him adopt, throughout his 
intercourse with others, a more strict and 
equitable rule of action. 

As this subject, however, in its highest and 


bo STDS LEA BAL TCS 8 RES GL ASR PRIS LEAT SOE TERRE TT TT EE SESE SY OP rd “TTT Tre IEEE BSE a ERE, Porter ee 


i 
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 61 | 


most serious import, belongs more properly 
to a subsequent chapter, we will consider 
more especially two particular defects in the 
‘moral character of men, which may be truly 
said, wherever they exist, to constitute the 
severest and most painful trials of married 
life. 
The first of these is intemperance; and 
here I am aware that my own views on this 
subject are scarcely such as ought to occupy 
a place in this work; not because I could not 
earnestly recommend them to the adoption 
of every English wife, but because, to do them 
ample justice, I should be compelled to fill a 
volume. 

Intemperance, then, to treat it as a com- 
mon vice, should, like every other evil ten- 
dency, be watched in its commencement; 
and here the eye of a conscientious and de- 
voted wife will be far better able to detect the 
mischief, than his, who, perhaps, in the se- 
cret of his heart, would rather not behold it 
even if he could. I believe there is no diffi- 
culty to a delicate-minded person, equal to 
that of warning a beloved friend or relative 
of his danger in this respect, else why do we 
see so many hundreds—nay, thousands look- 
| ing on, and not stretching out a helping hand 
until it is too late? 

The fact is, that if impressed in any com- 
mon measure with a sense of justice or of 
generosity, we cannot do it, so long as we 
ourselves, pursue the same course, only not 
exactly to the same extent. We cannot look 
into the face of a familiar friend, and say— 
“If you take one glass more, you will be 
guilty of a vulgar and degrading sin; while 
I, by taking one glass less, commit no sin at 
all.” And it must come to this, where it is 
the degree, and not the act itself, which con- 
stitutes the evil. It must come to the small- 
est possible measurement, to mark that min- 
ute, and ever shifting line, which. separates 
an act allowed and sanctioned by the wise 
and good, from one which stamps a human 
being with infamy in this world, and deprives 
him of all title to admission into the blessed- 
ness of the world to come. 

Leaving it then to women whose hearts 


might have animated the wives of Sparta, if | 
the absence of all sympathy and tenderness | 
for the weak in their weak points, may rank 
among the characteristics of those heroines 
of the past—leaving it to such women to sit 
down every day to an indulgence, which in 
a mere trifle of extent beyond their own meas- 
ure of gratification, they would deny to a 
husband—I must candidly confess, that I am 
wholly at a loss to know what to advise, 
should that husband, advancing a little and 
a little further by imperceptible degrees, at 
last exceed the bounds of strict propriety, 
and finally hasten on towards the “ drunk- 
ard’s grave.” | 

It is said again and again of such men, that 
they ought to stop in time; but which is the 
time? It may vary according to the state of 
their own health, as well as with the nature 
of the refreshment of which they partake ; 
while with no two individuals will it ever be 
found exactly the same. Besides which, it 
must always be remembered, that the right 
time to stop, is the time when the intemper- 
ate man least wishes to do so; because in 
exact proportion to his danger, has been his 
inability to perceive it, and his increase of in- 
clination to go onward towards excess. 

Tell me then, ye wise and potent reasoners 
on this subject, who hold yourselves above 
the vulgar error of believing that total absti- 
nence is the only safe and efficient means of 
rescuing the tempted man from ruin,—tell 
me, or rather tell the afflicted wife, what I am 
utterly unequal to, by what means she is to 
conquer, or even to restrain, the habit of in- 
temperance in her husband, except by in- 
ducing him altogether to abstain, and by ab- 
staining altogether herself. 

One remark, however, may not be inap- 
propriate here, as it applies equally to the 
point of view in which the subject has so long 
been held by the world in general, and to that 
in which it is the happier privilege of some 
in the present day to behold it. I mean that 
a husband should never be made the subject 
of reproach for transgressions of this nature. 
If he be a man of feeling, his spirit will be 
sufficiently wounded by a sense of his own 


62 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


[am SO sR TE OR a Se NO LY Na a aca am DE NS RR am a een 


degradation ; and if not, he will only be hard- 
ened by such treatment, and driven, as a 
means of revenging himself, into still greater 
eXCeSs. 

Indeed, nothing but the utmost delicacy, 
forbearance, and gentleness, will ever be 
found to answer in such a case; and what- 
ever means are employed, they must be con- 
fined in their operation to seasons of perfect 
sanity, and especially reserved for those oc- 
casions of fitful penitence, which often suc- 
ceed to the most extravagant indulgence ; 
when, partly from the weakness of an ex- 
hausted frame, and partly from the satiety 
of inclination, the victim of intemperance 
will sometimes throw open his heart to a 
confidential friend, whose kind and judicious 
treatment of him at such times, may not im- 
probably be rendered conducive to his ulti- 
mate recovery. 

Here, too, much may be done by making 
his home all that it ought to be to a husband, 


| by receiving him on his return with cordial 


——————_———— LS 
a 7 


smiles, by amusing him with pleasant conver- 
sation, but, more than all, by exercising over 
him, in a mild and prudent manner, that in- 
fluence which it is the high privilege of a 
loved and trusted wife to attain. 

Could all women who encourage their hus- 
bands in the commencement of intemperance, 
not only by smiling with evident satisfaction 
at any extraordinary proofs of good humor 
or excitement as they begin to appear, but 
beyond this, and far more effectually, by their 
own example—could all such women “look 
to the end,” and see the bitter fruits of this 
trifling with the serious indications of a grow- 
ing evil, they would stand appalled at the 
magnitude of their own sufferings, in having 
to watch from day to day, through their fu- 
ture lives, the gradual extinction of all they 
had ever loved in the being to whom they 
must still be united. They would see then 
how the very countenance may lose its beau- 
ty, and like some hideous form that grows 
upon us in a feverish dream, assume first one 
aspect of distortion, and then another, until 
all trace becomes extinct of the “ divinity” 
that stirred “within.” They would see then 


what an awful wreck is that presented by a 
lost and polluted mind; and they would feel, 
in all its reality, what it is to be desolate and 
alone. For the woman thus circumstanced 
must not complain. She must not ask for 
sympathy, for that would be to expose the 
folly and disgrace of him, about whom her 
hopes still linger; over whose degraded 
brow she would still fondly spread the soft 
shadow of her tenderness, that no ray of 
piercing light might reach it, to render more 
conspicuous its deformity and its shame. 
No; she can only lock her griefs within her 
own bosom, and be still. 

It must be from ignorance, for the phe- 
nomenon is not to be accounted for in any 
other way than on the ground of ignorance 
of what is to be found in human life, as well 
as what is the capability of the human heart 
for suffering and enjoying, which leads so 
many kindly-disposed and well-intentioned 
women into such culpable neglect of points 
connected with this important subject. 

One would willingly believe it was because 
they had never, even in idea, realized what 
it must be to live through one long night of 
anxious expectation, when the crisis of a 
husband’s fate had come, and when that sin- 
gle night would decide whether he had suf- 
ficient mastery over himself to resist, or 
whether he would allow his inclination to 
lead him for the last time over the barrier, 
and finally to plunge himself and his helpless 
family into irremediable wretchedness and 
ruin. 

It is in such seasons as these, that every 
moment is indeed an age, and every pulse 
like an advancing or receding wave, which 
falls with heavy swell upon the shore of life. 
And then what sharpening of the outward 
senses !—what quickening of the ear to dis- 
tant sounds, giving to that which lives not, a 
vitality, until the very step is heard, and then 
—another wave of the fast-ebbing tide, and 
all is gone, and all is silent as before. The 


eye, too, though dim with tears, and wearied 
out with watching, what does it not behold? 
—creating out of “strange combinations” of 
familiar things, some sudden and unexpected 


TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 


63 


evidence that he has returned! Yes, already 
come! Then follows an instantaneous flash 
of self-reproach for having judged him with 
too little kindness. But, no; the vision 
fades away, and with it sinks the heart of the 
too credulous believer. 


joyous recollection, of some other little acts 
of kindness by which she may possibly be 
able to make his home look more attractive. 

But still he comes not ; and that strange sick- | 
ness of the heart begins again, and creeps 
along her frame, until her very fingers ache 


And if such be the quickening of the out- | with anguish ; and tremblingly her hands are 


ward senses, what must be that of the differ- 
ent faculties of the mind?t—of memory, 
whose cruel task it is through those long 
weary hours, to paint the smiling past, to 
make it live again with such intensity of 
loveliness, that while no actual form intrudes, 


clasped together, and were it not for prayer, 
her heart would surely break with its strong 
agony ; for still he comes not. Yet,—slowly 
as the heavy hours drag on, the midnight 
chime at last is heard, that solemn peal, which 
tells to some its tale of peace, of safety, and 


nor actual sound breaks through the chain of | of home; while it speaks to others but of 
thought, the phantasy grows real; and old | darkness, desolation, and despair. 


impressions wake again, and voices speak 


But who shall fill from one sad moment to 


so kindly, and cordial looks, and gentle loving | another the page of busy thought, or paint 


acts, are interchanged, and pure soft feelings 
towards each other, as in those early days 
when the sweet “trysting time” was kept, 
and hope made light of expectation. Oh, 
agony ! 


the ever-shifting scenes which flit before the 
lonely watcher’s mind? Another hour, and 
still he comes not—Yet hark! It is his step 
—She flies to meet him—Let us close a scene 


It is a dream—a very dream. for which earth holds no parallel ; for here 


Nay, worse—the vision of the sleeper may | are mingled, horror, shame, repulsion and 


return; but this can never—never live 
again. 


There is no credulity like that of love. 


contempt, with a soft tenderness like that of 
some sad mother for her idiot child—joy that 
the shrouding wings of love once more can 


However dark may be the fear which alter- shelter him—bliss that no other eye but hers 


nates with hope-in the mind of her who is 
thus situated, she has, under all, and support- 


is there to see—kind yearning thoughts of 
care to keep him in his helplessness from 


ing her through all the deep foundation of | every touch of harm—feelings so gentle, yet 


her own unchanging love—that love which 
is strong as death. And by the same com- 
prehensive rule, which to her includes in one 
close union every faculty and feeling of her 


so powerful, of a strange gladness to be 
near him in his degradation—to press the 
hand which no one else in the wide world 
would hold—to kiss the brow which has no 


soul—by this rule she judges of her husband, | trace of beauty left! And to do this, night 


and calculates the probability of his return. 


after night—to live through all the changes 


By this rule it is impossible that he should | of this scene, through months and years, only 


forget her prayers, and her entreaties, her 
sorrow, her suffering, and her tears. 
this rule, then, he must of necessity remem- 
ber her in that gay circle, even when its mirth 
and its revelry are at their height. She has 
wronged him—deeply wronged him, to think 
he could forget. Another hour will find him 
by her side, repaying, Oh, how richly! all 
her anxious fears. 

With these sweet thoughts, she rises and 
trims her fire again, and draws her husband’s 


with less of hope, and more of anguish and 


By despair ! 


Such is the picture not exaggerated, for 
that would be impossible, of one short portion 
in the experience of how many women! We 
cannot number them. They are to be met 
with in society of every grade, and yet soci- 
ety for the most part can rest satisfied to do 
nothing more than pity them. Nor scarcely 
that ; for the same voice which speaks with 
feeble lamentations of the suffering of the. 


| chair beside the hearth, bethinking her, with | wife, will often press the husband to the fes- 


a 
Ne 


64 


tive board, and praise the sparkling wine, 
and urge him to partake. t 

' But it is time to turn our attention to the 
contemplation of another of the trials of mar- 


; ried life, of which it is to be hoped that few 


who read these pages, will have any cause to 
think with reference to themselves. It may 
be said, “ Why then remind them of the pos- 
sibility that such causes of trial may, or do, 
exist ?”’ I answer, that although the extreme 
of the case to which I am about to allude, is, 
happily for us, comparatively seldom known 
among respectable families in the middle 
ranks of life in England; yet, there are de- 
grees of proximity to these extremes, existing 
sometimes where we should least expect to 
find the cheerful aspect of domestic life cast 
under such a cloud. 

In reflecting seriously and impartially upon 
the love of married life, we must all be forci- 


bly impressed with the fact, that the love’ 


which is most frequently presented to the 
notice of the observer, is far from being such 
as we ourselves should be satisfied to pos- 
sess ; or, at all events, not such as women of 
deep and sensitive feelings would expect to 
meet with in the married state. It is true, 
there are instances, and they can scarcely be 
dwelt upon with too much admiration, where 
the love of married life, in all its imperishable 
beauty, outlives the bloom of youth, and sheds 
a radiance like the sunset glow of evening, 
around the peaceful passage of old age to- 
wards the tomb. And were it not that in 
such instances, we see the possibility of 
earthly love being kept in all its vigor and its 
freshness, uninjured by the lapse of time, it 
would be useless to follow up the inquiry 
every married woman ought to make—by 
what means is this love to be preserved ? 

li in speaking of the peculiar trial about to 
occupy our attention, I use the word unfaith- 
fulness, to signify my meaning, it is less in 
reference to those extremes of moral delin- 
quency which sometimes stain the history of 
private, as well as public life, than to those 
shighter shades of the same character, which 
more frequently flit across the surface of do- 
mestic peage; or, what is still more lament- 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


| ecstasy, down to the lowest notes of wo? No: 


able, remain to cloud the atmosphere of home- 
enjoyment, until the whole experience of 
married life becomes as dull, and soulless, 
and devoid of interest, as if the union was 
simply one of habit or convenience, endured 
with mutual indifference, yet dragged on with 
decency and something like respect, because 
it was “so nominated in the bond.” 

- But is it right that creatures endowed with 
capabilities for the highest and holiest enjoy- 
ment, should be satisfied with this? Nay, is 
it possible that happiness of so low a grade, 
if one may call it such, can fill the heart 
whose quick susceptibilities, whose trembling 
emotions, and whose living depths, have been 
formed to answer, and to echo every touch 
and tone of feeling, from the highest thrill of 


if we are reckless how we turn from its high 
destiny, a nature thus endowed; if we will 
thus sink the immortal in the material, so as 
merely to work out with mechanical precision 
the business of each day, in which the animal 
nature holds pre-eminence over the spiritual, 
we must not venture to complain that life is 
vapid and monotonous, or that there is little 
in this world to remind us of that blessedness 
which is promised as the ‘portion of the hap-_ 

py in the next. {| 

Whatever we aim to possess as a privilege 
even in this life, let it then be of the highest 
order; and having attained our wish, let us 
seek to preserve that privilege unimpaired. 
That which elevates the soul in its capability 
of enjoyment, is always worthy of our care; 
while that which lowers it, is always to be 
shunned and feared. In nothing is this more 
important to be observed, than in the preser- 
vation of earthly love. That which degrades 
the standard of affection, degrades the whole 
being; and that which raises this standard, | 
raises also every faculty which can be con- 
nected either immediately or remotely with 
the exercise of the affections. 

I have already described, in some particu- 
lars, how that best gift of Providence, the 
love of a faithful and devoted husband, is to 
be preserved. "We have now the painful 
task of supposing that it has been allowed, 


TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 


by some means or other, to fall away. There 
are faint and frequent symptoms of this de- 
cline, of which the judgment takes no cogni- 
zance, until after the heart has been made to 
feel them; and although I have already al- 
luded to the folly and the danger of volunta- 
rily looking out for such symptoms where 
there is no reason to suppose they exist, there 
may be equal, if not greater danger, in disre- 
garding them where they do. 

I will only mention as the first of these 
symptoms, an increased tendency on the part 
of the husband to be repelled or annoyed by 
little personal peculiarities. And here it may 
be observed, that almost every impression 
injurious to the love of man in married life, 
is personal or immediate, rather than remote. 


Thus a husband will more easily forgive his. 


wife for an act of moral culpability, provided 
it has no reference to himself, than for the 
least personal affront, or the slightest occasion 
for even a momentary sensation of disgust. 


| It consequently happens, that when affection 


begins to wane, the husband often becomes 
annoyed with the voice, the manner, the dress 
of his wife, more than he is with those of 
other women. She has, then, some peculiar 
way of doing every thing which seems to jar 
upon his senses ; and in time he ceases so 
entirely to look, to listen, or to linger near 
her, that unless more than commonly obtuse, 


she must be made to feel that she has lost. 


her power to charm him, and when that is 
lost—alas, for the poor wife! 

Still we must not forget, that there are two 
kinds of unfaithfulness, the one arising entire- 
ly from estranged affection; and the other 


| from attraction towards a different object. In 


the latter case it does not always follow that 
affection for the wife shall have become ex- 
tinct, and therefore there is hope; but, in the 
former, the fact that man’s love when once 
destroyed is destroyed forever, excludes all 


| possibility of consolation, except from a high- 


er and a surer source. As well might the 


mourner weeping for the dead, expect by 
tears and lamentations to reanimate the life- 
less form; as the unloved wife to recall the 
affection of her husband, after the bloom and 


‘ a 
ee 


65 


tenderness of his love is gone. Who then 
would incur the risk of so vast and irrepa- 
rable a loss, by a neglect of those personal at- 
tractions by which it was her study in early 
life to charm? Who would allow a careless 
or negligent demeanor to impress her hus- 
band’s mind with the conviction, that he was 
not in her estimation of sufficient importance 
to make it worth her while to please? or who 
would be willing that the powers of her mind 
should fall into disuse, when they might in 
their happiest and yet most natural exercise, 
be made conducive to the one great end of 
increasing her husband’s interest in his home? 

To feel herself an unequal companion to 
the being whom ofall others she would most 
wish to please, to have never cultivated her 
powers of conversation, and to be conscious 
that her society is vapid and uninteresting, 
must be one of the most painful and humilia- 
ting feelings to which an amiable woman can 
be subject: but to see, what is very natural 
in such a case, that others have a power 
which she has not, to call forth the higher 
faculties of her husband’s mind, to elevate 
his thoughts, to charm his fancy, and to en- 
liven his spirits !—Surely if the daughters of | 
England could realize by any exercise of their 
imagination, the full intensity of feelings such 
as these, they would cease to be careless 
about the cultivation of those means of pro- 
moting social and domestic happiness, with 
which every woman who enters upon the 
duties of a wife, ought to make herself ac- 
quainted. 

But beyond this vague and general feeling 
of being neglected, and this incapacity for 
doing any thing to avert so desolate a doom, 
it sometimes happens that there is real cause 
to suspect a transfer of the husband’s interest | 
and affection to another. And although no- 
thing can be more destructive to the happi- 
ness of married life, or more at variance with 
the nature of true and deep affection, than a 
predisposition to suspicion on these points ; 
yet where the case is too evident to admit of 
doubt, it would evince a culpable indifference 
in the wife who could suffer it to remain un- 
noticed. — . | 


r 


ir 


| 


| 
| 


| 66 


Here, however, if ever in the whole range 
of human experience, it is necessary to act 
with delicacy and caution. It is necessary, 
in the first place, to be sure. In the next, no 
selfish motive, no indignant feeling, no dis- 
position to revenge, must mingle with what 
is said or done on so melancholy and mo- 
mentous an occasion; for though the dignity 
of virtue, and the purity of the female char- 
acter, as well as the temporal and eternal 
good of the offender, alike require that some 
decided measures should be adopted to avert 
the evil; the wife herself must not forget, 
that under such circumstances she possesses 
no other than a legal claim—that, as a being 
to be cherished and beloved, she is utterly 
discarded from her husband’s heart—that 
scarcely is his home her own—that her re- 
spectability, her position in society, all that in 
which an honored and a trusted wife delights, 
are only nominally hers; and that she is in 
reality, or rather, in all which belongs to the 
true feelings of a woman, a low, lost thing, 
more lonely, pitiable, and degraded, than the 
veriest outcast from society who still retains 
a hold upon her husband’s iove. What, then, 
are admiration, wealth, or fame, to such a 
woman? Society, even though she were its 
idol, would have no power to flatter her; 
nor could the wide world, with all its congre- 
gated millions, awake within her desolate 
bosom a single thrill of pride. No, there is 


‘| nothing but uncomplaining loneliness, and 


utter self-abasement, for the portion of that 
wife who cannot keep her husband’s heart! 
It is in this spirit alone, that with any pro- 
priety or any hope, she can appeal to a hus- 
band’s feelings, carefully guarding against all 
expression of tenderness, no longer welcome 
or desired; and keeping, as it were, aloof in 
her humility ; yet withal, casting herself upon 
his pity, as one who is struck down by a be- 
loved hand, will kiss the instrument of her 
abasement; putting aside all selfish claims, 
as indeed she must; and making it evident, 
that though her own happiness is wrecked 
for ever, she cannot live without a hope, nor 
breathe without a prayer, forhim. __ 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


I —I— II III 


And surely, if all this is carried out to the 


full extent of woman’s delicacy, disinterest-. 


edness, and truth; and if accompanied by 
earnest and unceasing prayer for that help 
which no human power can then afford— 
surely, towards a wife thus suffering and sin- 
eere, the husband whose heart is not yet 
wholly depraved, could scarcely withhold his 
pity, his protection, and his love! 

And if the husband should relent, if he 
should renounce the object of attraction to 
his wandering fancy, though nothing can ob- 
literate the past, or break the chain of asso- 
ciation between that and the thousand appre- 
hensions which must of necessity link them- 
selves into the sad future; all these dark 
thoughts must be concealed within her bo- 
som, into whose secret counsels, and more 
secret griefs, no earthly friend must be ad- 
mitted. Neither must sadness cloud her 
brow, nor any lurking suspicion betray itself 
upon the smooth surface of her after-life, but 


vivacity and cheerfulness again must charm; 


while a manner disengaged, and a mind at 
liberty to please, and receive pleasure in re- 
turn, must prove the mastery of principle 
over impulse—of affection over self. 

lf with a wife thus circumstanced, the 
power to forget should appear the greatest 
mercy a kind Providence could bestow; and 
if this mercy being denied, the aspect of her 
life should look too dark to be endured, she 
must not forget that one earthly consolation 
yet remains—it is that of having kept her 
own affection unchanged and true: and oh! 
how infinitely preferable is the feeling of hav- 
ing borne unfaithfulness, than of having been 
unfaithful ourselves ! 

But beyond, and far above such consola- 
tion, is that of being remembered in her lost 
and low estate, by Him who chasteneth whom 
he loveth; of being permitted in her degrada- 
tion to come and offer up her broken heart 
to Him; when deprived of every other stay, 
to call Him father, and to ask in humble faith 
the fulfilment of His gracious promise of 
protection to those who put their trust in 
Him. 


joe : : : : ———————————————— en cee eee _ 


POSITION IN SOCIETY. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


POSITION IN SOCIETY. 


In.a previous work, addressed to the 
“Daughters of England,’ I have proposed 
as the first serious inquiry of a thinking mind, 
that all young persons entering upon the ac- 
tive duties of life, should ask this question— 
what is my actual position? And if in the 
season of early youth this question is import- 
ant, it is equally, if not more so, immediately 
after marriage, especially as the position of a 
woman must always depend upon that of her 
husband, where society is so constituted that 
a man may raise or lower his wife, though 
no woman, except in very peculiar cases, 
can effect any material alteration in the rank 
or station of her husband. 

Thus it is highly important, in taking upon 
herself the duties of a new home, that the 
wife should ascertain precisely what is her 
position with regard to those with whom she 
associates; for there is as great a deviation 
from good sense, integrity, and right feeling, 
in being servile to the great, as in being 
haughty to the poor. 

But it is impossible to enter upon this sub- 
ject, without being afresh reminded of one 
of those inconsistencies which mark the gen- 
eral tone of feeling and habit in society of 
the middle ranks in England. I mean a 
striking inequality between the degree of re- 
finement, self-indulgence, and luxury, existing 
among men, and that which is generally 
found among women of the same rank. In 
families whose dependence is entirely upon 
business, this is especially the case, at least 
in our large towns and cities; for, while the 
sons are sent out at an early age, to engage 
in all the drudgery of the shop or the ware- 
house, the daughters remain at home, not 
unfrequently the occupants of elegant draw- 
ing-rooms, with little else to do than practise 
their music lessons, manufacture their Wax- 


flowers, or pursue, according to the popular 


notions of the day, those various and infallible 
methods.of renovating a feeble constitution, 
which, in nine cases out of ten, in reality 
| wants nothing more than a little wholesome 


| eee 


67 


« 


activity to render it as strong as either hap- 


piness or usefulness require. 

Now, though it is far from the wish of the 
writer to wage war against any of those in- 
genious occupations which fill up the spare 
time of young ladies in general, provided such | 
occupations are kept in their proper place, 
and made to fill up spare time only; yet, 
against the morbid feelings both of mind and 
body, which are engendered by a life of mere 
trifling, all who wish well to the sex, both in 
this and other countries, must feel it a sacred 
duty to use such influence as they possess. 

It is, however, the foolish pride, and the 
false notions of what is, or is not, becoming, 
naturally arising out of the state of existence 
to which our young Jadies of the middle class 
of society in England are consigned, which, 
more than any thing else, interfere with their 
happiness, and prevent their being in reality 
either a help, or a comfort, to the companions 
whose lot they are bound to share for life. 

England as a nation has little to boast of 
beyond her intellectual and her moral power. 
It is in this that her. superiority is felt and 
acknowledged by the world; and in this it 
might almost be allowed her to indulge a 
sort of honest pride. That this power is 
chiefly lodged with the middle classes, I 
think all have agreed; and that, originating 
in them, it is made to operate more exten- 
sively through the efficient instrumentality 
of a comparatively well-ordered and wisely 
governed population of working people. 

What then would England gain indivi- 
dually or collectively, by the middle classes 
aspiring upwards to imitate the manners, 
and adopt the customs of the aristocracy ? 
No; let her shopkeepers be shopkeepers 
still—her farmers, farmers—and the wives 
and daughters of such honest, manly, and 
honorable citizens of the world, let them no 
longer blush to owe the comfort of their 
homes to the profits of a well-conducted 
trade. 

To say nothing of the want of right sub- 
mission to the will of Providence, evinced by 
being foolishly above the situation we are 
born to; it is in my opinion a sort of rebel- 


il it 


ce 
ee = 
a 


68 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


lion, or rather treachery, against the welfare 
of our country, to be thus unwilling to main- 
tain, what future ages will agree to have been 
the glory of the times in which we live. 

Besides which, it requires but little know- 
ledge, but little observation of society in other 
countries, and but little acquaintance with 
the world in general, to see that those dis- 
tinctions which give to one occupation so 
much more dignity than another, must be 
purely conventional. Let us look, as an in- 
stance of this, at the vast difference we make 
in our notions of gentility between wholesale 
and retail business. And though a man of 
noble birth, as he drives by necessity through 
the bustling streets of London, would smile 
at the idea that trade was not a degradation 
of itself sufficient to exclude all notion of de- 
gree; yet the tradesman living at his shop 
knows perfectly well, that his wife and daugh- 
ters have no right to visit with the wife and 

daughters of him who keeps his country 
| house, and sells en masse, from some dark 
' warehouse in the city, the self-same articles 
in which the other deals. 

Still these distinctions, strongly and clearly 
as they are occasionally impressed upon the 
inferior classes, become sometimes a little in- 
tricate, as wealth enables its possessor to ad- 
vance in the scale of luxury and indulgence. 
When the city shopkeeper, for instance, ob- 
tains sufficient to enable him to settle in his 
rural villa, from whence he issues every 
morning to his counting-house in town, the 
wife and daughters who remain to set the 
fashions of the village where they live—how 
immeasurably far are they from holding in- 
tercourse with any of the shopkeepers there! 
Even when affairs connected with the wei- 
fare of the neighborhood render it necessary 
to call upon the shopkeeper’s wife, they meet 
her in a manner the most distant, and the 
most unlike what could by any possibility be 
construed into friendship. 

But in order to see more clearly the perfect 
absurdity of such distinctions, we have only 
to make a sudden transition of thought to 
the state of a new colony, on some uncivil- 
ized and distant shore; and ask what differ- 


ence any one would think of making there, 
between the member of that little community , | 
who should prepare the skins of wild animals 
for general use, and him who should manu- 
facture such skins into articles of wearing 
apparel? or who would pronounce upon the 
inferiority of occupation in him who should 
employ himself each day in catering for a 
single meal, to that of him who should, in a 
longer space of time, provide for many meals 
together ? 

That the man who held the reins of gov- 
ernment over such a community, would 
merit some distinction, I am free to allow, 
because his situation would be one to which 
he must have risen either by his own superi- 
ority of mind, or by the unanimous consent 
of the rest, who agreed, at the time they ap- || 
pointed him to the office, to evince towards 
him the respect which is always due to influ- | 
ence rightly exercised. In the same manner, 
and according to their different degrees of 
capability, many of the others would, no 
doubt, work their way to offices of responsi- 
bility and trust, instituted for the good of the 
whole body, and each entitled to its share of 
respect and confidence. But that working 
in one material more than another, handling 
one article of food or apparel, or even deal- 
ing in a large or a small way, with those 
who buy and sell, should be able to create 
distinctions of such importance as to sepa- 
rate society into mere fractions, or to invest 
one party with honor, and cast odium upon 
the other, is a phenomenon which has been 
left for the enlightened stage of civilization in 
which we live, fully to develop, though the 
march of intellect has hitherto failed to re- 
duce the whole to a system, so as to be un- 
derstood and acted upon with any degree of 
certainty and precision. 

It may be said, and perhaps with too much 
truth, that the business of shopkeeping, as it 
is generally conducted, has little tendency to 
ennoble the character; and that perpetually 
striving to please for purposes of self-interest, 
those who in reality are sometimes cordially 
despised, is lowering to the dignity of a man, 
to say nothing of a gentleman. 


It may be asked, on the other hand, who, 
in the present state of society, is exempt 
from this particular kind of degradation ? 
The lawyer, who may be said almost to hold 
the destinies of his fellow-creatures in his 
hand—he cringes to his wealthy client, and 
often works his way to distinction by conceal- 
ing his real sentiments, and pretending to be 
other than he is. The doctor, too, with his 
untiring patience, and his imperturbable se- 
renity, approaching with apparent kindness 
and respect, where every feeling of his soul 
is repelled—who would speak of him as an 
independent man, more especially in the out- 
set of his career? Nor is this less the case 
with other professions, all which, however, 
are esteemed more honorable, and conse- 
quently more eligible, than any kind of trade. 

But still— | 

‘ A man’s a man for a’ that ;” 

and let his occupation be what it may, it is 
the honest heart, the upright principle, the 
steady mind, and the unbiased judgment, 
which give him dignity wherever he may be 
placed. The man who possesses these qual- 
ifications, in addition to a far-stretching and 
enlightened intellect, must ever be a pillar to 
the state in which he lives, for he will up- 
hold its integrity, and without such men no 
nation can be truly great. 

As the chosen companion of such a man, 
is it possible, then, that an English woman 
born to the same rank in society, should 
blush to acknowledge herself a tradesman’s 
wife? Nor is this all. It is not the bare ac- 
knowledgment that she is so, which can in 
any way be made to answer the demands of 
duty, but a perfect willingness to adapt her- 
self in every respect to her situation, so as to 
answer its various requirements to the satis- 
faction of all around her. And here the sis- 
ters who have been separated so widely from 
their brothers in the formation of their social 
and domestic habits, are found so often and 
so lamentably at fault; not always because 
they are unwilling to do what duty may re- 
quire, but because from having early imbibed 
false notions of what is really honorable, and 
really degrading, they do their duty, if at all, 


a eee 


POSITION IN SOCIETY. 


69 


in a troubled, fretful, and discontented spirit, 
as much at variance with what a husband 
would naturally desire in the companion of 
his home, as with what ought to be exhibited 
as the graces of the Christian character. 

Yet what can be expected of such wives, 
for they have their sickly sensibilities arising 
out of the false position they have held, and 
for which they have been training; they have 
the romance engendered by indolence and 
light reading; they have the love of self, 
which personal indulgence has strengthened 
into a habit; they have their delicate consti- 
tutions, and their thousand ailments—they 
have all these to contend with, and all opera- 
ting powerfully against the cheerful perform- 
ance of the new duties in which they are in- 
volved. | 

Who can have witnessed the situation of 
such women in their married state, without 
longing to awaken the whole sisterhood to a 
different estimate of duty, and of happiness ? 
Who can have observed their feeble striving 
after nobler effort, when too late to attain the 
power of making it to any useful purpose— 
the spirit broken, the health impaired, the 
beauty and vivacity of youth all gone; the 
few accomplishments upon which their time 
was wasted, forgotten, or remembered only 
as a dream; the wish without the hope to do 
better for the future, than has been done for 
the past, the failmg of pecuniary means, re- 
sources gradually diminishing in proportion 
to the increase of demand—sickness, ser- 
vants, children, and their education, all re- 
quiring more and more—who that has ever 
looked upon all this, and there are not a few 
among the boasted homes of England where 
the reality of this picture might be found, 
would not yearn with aching heart over su 
lamentable a waste of good feeling and in- 
tention, arising solely out of the early, but 
wrong basis of the female mind with regard 
to common things? 

But let us not despair. Where ignorance 
and not perverseness constitutes the founda- 
tion of any prevailing evil, the whole may 
easily be remedied. Let us look then again 
at the constitution of English society, at the 


A 


| 


vast proportion of good which is effected by 
the middle classes, at the mass of intellect it 
comprehends, at the genius by which it is 
adorned, at the influence it commands, at the 
dignity with which it is invested by the state, 
and last, but not least, at its independence ; 
for if, on the one hand, it claims exemption 
from the necessary hardships and restrictions 
of the poor, on the other, it is equally privi- 
leged in its exemption from the arbitrary re- 
quirements of exalted rank. 

It is unquestionably one of the great ad- 
vantages of being born to this station, that 
we are comparatively free to think and act 
for ourselves; that our heritage is one of 
liberty, with the rational enjoyment of which 
no one has a right to, interfere. We have 
our intellectual privileges, too, and leisure 
for the cultivation of the mind; our social 
meetings, where we dare to speak. the hon- 
est feelings of the heart, no man being able 
to make us afraid; our hospitality unshack- 
led by the cold formalities of rank ; our homes 
supplied with every comfort, and it may be, 
adorned with elegance; our fireside pleas- 
ures uninterrupted; our ingatherings of 
domestic joy sacred to those who dwell be- 
neath the same protecting roof; and no in- 
terference with our sentiments, or our reli- 
gion, but each one left to follow out the pur- 
pose of a merciful Creator, by choosing his 
Bible and his conscience as his only guide. 

And what could any reasonable woman 
wish for more? Or having found herself a 
member of a community thus constituted, 
why should she reject its noble privileges, for 


the sake of any feeble hold she may obtain 


of such as belong more probably to another, 
and a higher sphere? 

I have already stated, in an earlier por- 
tion of this work, that true dignity can only 
be maintained by adaptation to our cir- 
cumstances, whatever they may be: thus 


there can be no dignity in assuming what 
does not belong to our actual position in so- 
ciety ; though many temptations to fall into 
this error are placed in the way of women in 
When, for instance, the wife of a 
respectable tradesman is associated with Pe a 


general. 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


sons of superior rank in the duties of private 
or public charity, she is frequently treated. | 
with a degree of kindness and freedom, | 
which, if not on her guard against the fasci- |} 
nating manners of that class of society, might 
easily beguile her into the belief that no real 
difference of rank was felt to exist. But just 
in proportion as she would herself desire to be 
affable and kind to those beneath her, without |} 
such kindness being presumed upon as an | 
evidence of equality ; so it often happens that | 
ladies of rank do really enjoy a certain degree 
of friendly and social intercourse with women: 
of good sense occupying a lower station,. 
when at the same time they would shrink 
away repelled by the least symptom of the 
difference of rank being forgotten by the in- 
ferior party. 

It is the instinct of natural delicacy then 
which leads us rather to withdraw our famil- 
larity, than to have it withdrawn from; and 
if thus sensible of what is her proper sphere, 
and scrupulous to observe its limits, a right- 
minded woman need never be made to feel 
that she is not respected; although the mo- 
ment she steps beyond the boundary of that 
sphere, the true dignity of her character will 
be gone. 

Nor is this the case with her position in 
society alone. All misapprehensions about 
herself, such as supposing she is beautiful 
when she is not, or highly gifted when no 
evidence of talent appears, or important 
when she has no influence—all these mis- 
takes are calculated to deprive a woman of 
that dignity which is the inalienable posses- 
sion of all who fill with perfect propriety their 
appointed place. 

It is scarcely necessary in the present state 
of society to point out, on the other hand, the 
loss of character and influence occasioned by 
living below our station; for if in some indi- 
vidual minds there is an inherent tendency 
to sink and grovel in their own sphere, or to 
be servile and cringing to those above them ; 
such a propensity forms so rare an exception 
to the general character of the times in which 
we live, as scarcely to need any further com- 
ment, more especially as such a disposition 


POSITION IN SOCIETY. 71 


is exposed by its own folly to that contempt 
which constitutes its proper punishment. 

It is, however, deeply to be regretted, that 
often where this tendency is not inherent, 
nor consequently a part of individual charac- 
ter, it has in too many instances been induced 
by the severe and constant pressure of pecu- 
niary difficulties, rendering it an act of ne- 
cessity, rather than of choice, that the favor 
of the distinguished or the wealthy should be 
sought, and their patronage obtained, as the 
only means of ensuring success, and some- 
times as the only hope of preserving a help- 
less family from want or ruin. 

Pitiable as this situation may be, and fre- 
quent as there is every reason to fear it is, 
much may be done in cases of this kind to 
keep up the moral dignity of a husband and 
a family, by the influence of a high-principled 
wife, who will make it the study of her life 


| to prove that it is not in the power of cir- 
/ cumstances to degrade an upright and inde- 


pendent mind. 

If, then, it is a duty of paramount import- 
ance for a wife to ascertain what is her ex- 
act position in society, and to endeavor to 
adapt herself to it wherever it may be; her 
next duty is to consider well the manner of 
doing this. We can all feel, in the case of 
our servants and dependents, the vast differ- 
ence there is between a willing and an un- 
willing service. How striking then must be 
this difference, where all the social! affections, 
and the best feelings of the heart, are impli- 
cated, as they must be, in the conduct of a 
wife ! 

I can think of no more appropriate word 
by which to describe the manner in which 
her duties ought to be performed, than the 


homely phraseology we use, when we speak 


of things being done heartily; for it is pre- 
cisely in this way that she may most effect- 
ually prove to her husband how entirely she 
considers her destiny, with all its hopes, and 
all its anxieties, to be identified with his. 
As a mere matter of policy, too, nothing can 
be more likely to ensure the happiest results, 
since whatever we do heartily, produces in 
one sense its own reward, by stimulating in- 


to healthy activity the various powers of the 
mind and body, and thus exciting a degree 
of energy and cheerfulness, alike calculated 
to enhance the pleasure of success, or to 
support under the trial of disappointment. 
While on the other hand, a shrinking, re- 
luctant, halfish way of falling in with the re- 
quirements of duty, by perpetuating the sen- 
sation of self-sacrifice, and dragging out each 
individual effort into a lingering and painful 
struggle, is not more likely to produce the 
most unfavorable impression upon the minds 
of those with whom we are associated, than 
to weary out our own inclination to do right, 
at the same time that it effectually destroys 
our happiness and our peace of mind. 

I have thus far, in relation to position in 
society, spoken only of cases in which the 
wife may be liable to feel that her situation 
is a humiliating one, and I have been com- 
pelled to do this at some length—from the 
fact already noticed, of the sisters in families 
connected with business, being generally so 
far in advance of their brothers, not only as 
regards their notions of what is suitable or 
becoming to themselves, but also the habits 
they have cultivated of refinement and per- 
sonal indulgence, as to render it scarcely 
possible for them to marry in the same sphere 
of life, without having much to endure before 
they can enter with full purpose of heart into 
all the requirements of their new situation. 

But if cases of this kind constitute the ma- 
jority of those which fall under our notice, 
we must not forget that in English society, 
it is the privilege of many persons in the 
middle ranks to be placed in circumstances 
of affluence and ease, where the luxuries of 
life, and even its elegances, may properly be 
enjoyed. And if the first aspect of such a 
lot should present the idea of greater per- 
sonal indulgence being its lawful accompani- 
ment; on the other hand, the serious and 
reflecting mind must be struck with the im- 
portant fact, that in proportion to more ex- 
tensive means of enjoyment, must be a wider 
influence, and a greater amount of re- 
sponsibility. 

To use this influence aright, and to render | 


2 a 
EE OLD SEE TILE IRAE AL SAE LS EL ELE LIE ITE SEPT TET P TIEN PELL LCI ROOT A LE LOLOL ROO ELLA LEL LIE IOTED AA 


| 


[SoS St eS SS SS SSN 


a aR LT Ee 


72 


to her conscience a strict account of these 
responsibilities, will be no light undertaking 
to the English wife ; and as we live, happily 
for us, in a country where channels are per- 
petually opened for our benevolence, and 
opportunities perpetually offered for our ef- 
forts to do good, we cannot, if we would, 
rest satisfied with the plea, that our disposi- 
tion towards usefulness meets with no field 
for its development. 

It so happens, however, that the same po- 
sition in society which presents such facilities 


for the. exercise of better feeling, presents’ 


also innumerable temptations to the gratifi- 
cation of female vanity, indolence, and self- 
indulgence, with all the evils which common- 
ly follow in their train. The very title of this 
chapter—“ Position in Society,”—-where it 
conveys an idea of wealth and influence, 
never fails to conjure up a host of enemies to 
simple Christian duty, some of which are so 
deceptive and insidious, as effectually to es- 
cape detection, until their magnitude, as 
plants of evil growth, becomes a cause of 
just alarm. 

The great facility with which the elegan- 
ces and luxuries of life are now obtained, 
and the general competition which prevails 
throughout society with regard to dress, furni- 
ture, and style of living, present to a vain and 
unenlightened woman, an almost irresistible 
temptation to plunge into that vortex of extrav- 
agance, display, and worldly-mindedness, in 
which, I believe, a greater amount of good in- 
tention has been lost, than by the direct as- 
sault of enemies apparently more powerful. 

Again, the indolence almost necessarily in- 
duced by the enjoyment to a great extent of 
the luxuries of life—how often is this foe to 
health and cheerfulness dressed up in the 
cloak of charity, and made to assume the 
character of kindness to the poor, in offering 
them employment. Not that I would be 
guilty of endeavoring to divert from so ne- 
cessitous a channel the proper exercise of 
real charity; but at the same time that we 
advocate the cause of the poor, let us call 
things by their right names; and if we em- 
ploy more servants than are necessary, or 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


send out our work to be done by those who 


need the utmost amount of what we give ° 


them for doing it, let us not take advantage 
of this disposition of our affairs, to spend the 
time which remains upon our hands in idle- 
ness; but let us rather employ, in a higher 
sphere of usefulness, those faculties of mind, 
and those advantages of education, the free 
exercise of which constitutes one of the 
greatest privileges of an exalted station. 

The same temptations which spread the 
snare of indolence around the feet of the un- 
wary, are equally potent in their power to 
beguile into habits of self-indulgence. And 
here the fancied or real delicacy of constitu- 
tion which seems in the present day to be 
the birthright of Englishwomen, with all that 
spectral host of nervous maladies, which so 
often paralyze their energies, and render nu- 
gatory their efforts to do good—here, in this 
most privileged of all positions of human life, 
most frequently assail the female frame, so as 
often to reduce their pitiable victim to a mere 
nonentity as regards one great end of her ex- 
istence—usefulness to her fellow-creatures. 

Far be it from me to speak with unkind- 
ness or want of sympathy of those maladies 
of mind and body, which, under the general 
head of nervous disorders, I believe to con- 
stitute some of the greatest miseries which 
“flesh is heir to.” But having never found 
them to exist to any serious extent where 
constant occupation of head and hand, and 
heathful bodily exercise, were kept up with 
vigorous and unremitting effort; I feel the 
more anxious that English wives should not 
create for themselves, out of their habits of 
personal indulgence, so formidable an enemy 
to their own enjoyment, and to the beneficial 
influence which, as Christian women, they 
are capable of exercising to an almost incal- 
culable extent. 

I feel anxious also, that some pictures, too 
frequently witnessed by us all, should never 
be realized in their experience—pictures in 
which a sickly, helpless, desponding wife, 
forms the centre of a group of neglected 
children, whose boisterous mirth she is little 
able to endure, and whose numerous wants, 


ERR A 9 ES A a 


P 


3 / 


(nn ne een 


», 


POSITION IN SOCIETY. 


73 


all unrestrained, remind her every moment, 
with fresh pain, of her inability to gratify 
them. 

That a woman thus situated, is, under ex- 
isting circumstances, more to be pitied than 
blamed, we should be wanting in common 
feeling to deny ; but in comparing her situa- 
tion with that of a healthy, active, cheerful- 
spirited wife, prompt to answer every claim, 
and happy in the discharge of every duty ; 
and when we see how such a woman, merely 
by the exercise of moral power, and often 
without the advantages of any extraordinary 
intellectual gifts, can become the living prin- 
ciple of activity, order, and cheerfulness in 
her own family, the adviser whom all consult, 
the comforter to whom all repair, and the 
support upon whom all depend, happy in 
herself, and diffusing happiness around her 
—oh how we long that those dispositions, 
and those habits, both of mind and body, 
should be cultivated in early youth, which 
would be most likely to ensure such blessed 
results as the experience of riper years! 

Much of this habitual cheerfulness, and 
this willing submission to the requirements 
of duty, is to be attained by the proper regu- 
lation of our aims with regard to common 
things; but especially by having chosen a 
right standard of excellence for every thing we 
do. For want of aiming at the right thing, 
the whole course of human life, which 
might be so richly diversified with enjoyment 
of various kinds, is often converted into a 
long, fruitless, and wearisome struggle, first 
to attain a happiness which is never found, 
and then to escape a misery which too surely 
pursues its mistaken victim. 

The married woman cannot, then, too fre- 
quently ask herself, “ What is it which con: 
stitutes the object of my greatest earthly de- 
sire ? and at what standard dol really aim ?”’ 
Nor let us deceive ourselves either in asking 
or in answering these questions; for if it be 
essential to integrity that we should be sin- 
cere with others, it is no less so that we 
should be sincere with ourselves. 

If, then, we are weak enough to aim at be- 
ing the centre of a brilliant circle, let us not 


pretend that we court notoriety for the pur- 
pose of extending our influence, and through 
that, our means of doing good. Ifweaim at 
surpassing our neighbors in the richness of 
of our furniture, the splendor of our enter- 
tainments, and the costliness of our dress, 
let us not deceive ourselves into the belief, 
that it is for the sake of encouraging the 
manufactures and the people of our own 
country. If we aim at taking the lead in af- 
fairs of moment, and occupying the first 
place among those with whom we associate, 
let us not do this under the plea of being 
forced into a conspicuous situation against 
our will, in compliance with the wish of 
others, and under the fear of giving them of. 
fence. Let us, I repeat, be honest with our- 
selves, for this is our only chance of ever 
arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, or at- 
taining any desirable end. 

And if we would ascertain with certainty 
what is the actual standard of excellence 
which in idea we set up for ourselves, for all 
persons, whether they know it or not, have 
such a standard, we have only to ascertain 
to what particular purpose our thoughts and 
actions most uniformly téhd. If the most 
briliant and striking characters are those 
which we consider most enviable, we may 
easily detect in ourselves a prevailing en- 
deavor, in what we say or do, to produce an 
impression, and consequently to render our- 
selves conspicuous, than which, nothing can 
be more out of keeping with the right position 
of a married woman, nor more likely to ren- 
der her, at the summit of her wishes, a mark 
for envy, and all uncharitableness. 

But a far more frequent, and more exten- 
sively prevailing standard of excellence, is 
that which consists in giving the best dinners, 
exhibiting the most costly furniture, being 
dressed in the newest fashion, and making 
every entertainment go off in the most suc- 
cessful manner. How many heads and 
hearts are made to ache by this ambition, it 
must be left for the private history of every 
family to record. What sleepless nights, 
what days of toil, what torturing anxieties, 
what envyings, what disputes, what back- 


ec 


74 


bitings, and what bitter disappointments arise 
out of this very cause, must be left for the 
same record to disclose. And if in the oppo- 
site scale we would weigh the happiness en- 
joyed, the good imparted, or the evil over- 
come by the operation of the same agency, 
we behold a blank; for let the measure of 
success be what it may, there is no extreme 
of excellence to which this ambition leads, 
but it may be exceeded by a neighbor, or 
perhaps a friend; and where wealth can 
purchase all that we aspire to, we must 
ever be liable to the mortifying chance of be- 
ing compelled to yield precedence to the ig- 
norant and the vulgar-minded. 

Nothing, in fact, can be more vulgar, or 
more in accordance with the lowest grade 
of feeling, than an ambition of this kind. 
Not only is it low in its own nature, but low 
in all the calculations it requires, in all the 
faculties it calls into exercise, and in all the 
associations it draws along with it. Yet, 
who shall dethrone this monster from its 
place in the hearts of English wives, where 
it givés the law to private conduct, levies a 
tax upon industry, monopolizes pecuniary 
profit, makes itself the arbiter in cases of 


‘difficulty or doubt, rules the destiny of fami- 


lies, and finally gives the tone to public feel- 
ing, and consequently the bias to national 
character ? 

I ask again, who shall dethrone this mon- 
ster? Perhaps there would be little weight 
attached to my assertion, if I were to say 
that it is within the sphere of woman’s influ- 
ence to do this; thatit rests with the wives 
of England to choose whether they will go 
on to estimate their position in society by the 
cost of their furniture, and the brilliance of 
their entertainments; or, by the moral and 
intellectual character of their social jinter- 
course, by the high principle which regulates 
their actions, and by the domestic happiness 
to be found within their homes. 

So long as we esteem those we meet with 
in society according to the fashion of their 
dress, the richness of their ornaments, or the 
style in which they live, it is a mockery of 
words to say that our standard of excellence 


THE WIVES°OF ENGLAND. 


I 


does not consist in that which money can 


purchase, or a vain and vulgar ambition at-. 


tain. Andso long as we feel cast down, dis- 
appointed, and distressed at being outshone 
in these outward embellishments, it is a cer- 
tain proof that we are not attaching supreme 
importance to such as adorn the mind. 

Iam fully aware, in writing on this subject, 
that I am but lifting a feeble voice against the 
giant-force of popular feeling; that the state 
of our country, presenting an almost univer- 
sal tendency towards an excess of civiliza- 
tion, added to the improvement in our manu- 


factures, and the facility with which every — 


kind of luxury is now obtained, are causes 
perpetually operating upon the great mass 
of the people, so as to urge them on to a state 
of eager competition in the display of all 
which money can procure; and that this 
competition is highly applauded by many, as 
beneficial to the nation at large, and espe- 
cially so when that nation is considered mere- 
ly as a mass of instrumentality, operating 
upon what is purely material. 

But I am aware also, that this very cause, 
operating so widely and so powerfully as it 
does, ought to furnish the impetus of a new 
movement in society, by which the intellec- 
tual and the spiritual shall, by a fresh effort, 
be roused to its proper elevation above the 
material; and this necessary and truly noble 
effort, I must again repeat, it is in the power 
of the wives of England to make. 

Nor would this great movement in reality 
be so difficult to effect, as we might be led to 
suppose from looking only at the surface of 
society, and observing the multiplicity of in- 
stances in which a false standard of excel- 
lence is established. We are sometimes too 
much influenced in our opinions, as well as 
too much discouraged in our endeavors to 
do good, by a superficial observation of the 
general state of things in social life ; for there 
is often an under-current of feeling towards 
what is just and good, at work in the minds 
of those who, from being deficient in the 
moral power to act upon their own convic- 
tions, fall in with the superficial tide, and go 
along with the stream, against their better 


a 


POSITION IN SOCIETY. 


rh) 


judgment, if not against their real inclina- 
tions. 

Thus, in a more close and intimate ac- 
quaintance with the world, we find, to our 
frequent satisfaction, that a combination of 
intellectual superiority and moral worth, is 
not in reality so lightly esteemed as at first 
we had supposed; that the weak and the 
vain, who spend their lives in striving after 
that which truly profiteth not, are dissatisfied 
and weary with their own fruitless efforts, 
and that others a little more gifted with un- 
derstanding, and enlightened by juster views, 
though engaged in the same unprofitable 
struggle, would be more than glad of any 
thing that would assist them to escape from 
their grovelling anxieties, and low entangle- 
ments, so as in an open and decided manner 
to declare themselves on the side of what is 
intrinsically good, and consequently worthy 
of their utmost endeavors to attain. 

Thus we find too, in spite of popular ‘pre- 
judice against a simple dress, or a homely 
way of living, that respectability, and genuine 
worth of character, are able not only to give 
| dignity to any position in society, but also to 
command universal respect from others; and 
that, while few are bold enough to imitate, 
there is no small proportion of the commu- 
nity who secretly wish they were like those 
noble-minded individuals, who dare to aim at 
a true standard of excellence in the forma- 
tion of their own habits, and the general con- 
duct of their families. 

Shall we then go on in the same way, 
forcing ourselves to be contemptible, and de- 
spising the bondage to which we submit? It 
is true, the effort necessary to be made,'which 
the state of the times, and the satisfaction of 
our consciences, alike require of us, is hard 
for any single individual. But let us stand 
by each other in this great and noble cause. 
Let the strong endeavor to encourage and 
sustain the weak; and let us prove, for the 
benefit of succeeding generations, how much 
may be done for the happiness of our homes, 
and the good of our country, by being satis- 


fied with the position in which Providence 
has placed us, and by endeavoring to adorn 
that position with the lasting embellishments 
which belong to an enlightened understand- 
ing, a well-regulated mind, and a benevolent, 
sincere, and faithful heart. 

Our standard of excellence will then be no 
longer found in the most splendid jewelry, or 
the costliest plate ; for in all these the vulgar 
and the ignorant may easily attain pre-emi- 
nence; but in. the warmest welcome, the 
kindest service, the best-regulated household, 
the strictest judgment of ourselves, the most 
beneficial influence, the highest hopes for fu- 
turity, and the largest amount of domestic 
and social happiness which it is ever permit- 
ted to the families of earth to enjoy. 

It is needless to say that all these embel- 
lishments to life may be ensured without re- 
gard to position in society ; and if such were 
made the universal standard of excellence 
among the wives of England, much, if not 
all, the suffering which prevails wherever 
happiness is made to consist in what money 
can procure, would cease to be found within 
our homes; while, rising thus above our cir- 
cumstances, we should no longer be subject 
in our hopes and fears to the fluctuations of 
commerce, or the uncertainty of a position 
depending solely upon its pecuniary advan- 
tages. We should then feel to be resting on 
a sure foundation, just in proportion as our 
standard was faithfully upheld. Ido not say 
that we should be free from troubles, for such 
are the lot of all; but that single wide-spread- 


ing source of anxiety, which from its vastness 


appears in the present day to swallow up all 
others—the anxiety to attain a position higher 
than our own proper sphere, would then van- 
ish from our land; and with it such a host 
of grievances, that in contemplating so bless- 
ed a change in our domestic and social con- 
dition, I cannot but again entreat the wives 
of England to think of these things, and finally 
to unite together in one firm determination 
to establish a new and a better standard by 
which to estimate their position in society. 


ST 


| 76 


CHAPTER IX. 
DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 


C1oseLy connected with the subject already 
dwelt upon, is that of domestic management ; 
since whatever standard we choose, and what- 
ever principles we adopt as our rule of action, 
‘will develop themselves in the system we 
pursue with regard to the conduct of our do- 
mestic affairs. 

If, therefore, to appear well with the world 
according to the popular standard, be our su- 
preme desire, the tendency of our domestic 
regulations will be to make, before our friends 
and associates, the greatest possible display 
of what is costly and elegant in our furniture 
and style of living; while, on the other hand, 
if our aim be to ensure the greatest amount 
of happiness to ourselves, and to those around 
us, we shall have a widely different task to 
| pursue; and it is to the latter purpose only 
that I propose devoting this chapter, as the 
former could be better effected by consult- 
ing the upholsterer, the silversmith, or the 
jeweller. . 

Leaving to individuals thus qualified the 
important office of deciding what is accord- 
ing to the latest fashion, and which article 
| is most approved in circles of distinction, 
| we must turn our attention to a study of a 
totally different description ; and if at first it 
should appear more difficult and complica- 
ted, it will have the merit of becoming every 
| day more simple, and more clear; or if it 
| should seem to involve by necessity a cer- 
tain degree of suffering and self-denial, it 
will have the still higher merit of resulting 
in ultimate happiness ; while the system of 
domestic management above alluded to, 
though in the outset full of promises of 
indulgence and pleasure, is certain to in- 
volve in greater and deeper perplexity the 
longer it is pursued, and finally to issue in 
| vexation and disappointment. 

It is, then, the way to make others hap- 
|| py, and consequently to be happy ourselves, 
which I am about to recommend; and if 
in doing this I am compelled to enter into the 
minute and homely details of woman’s daily 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


AY cece ee EE 


‘mon, and consequently to some extent vul- 


life, I must claim the forbearance of the read- | 
er on the plea that no act can be so trifling |} 
as not to be ennobled by a great or a gen- 
erous motive. 

Before proceeding further with this subject, 
I must address one word to the ladies of the 
present day—to the refined and fastidious, 
who dwell in an atmosphere of taste, and 
make that their standard of excellence—lest 
from the freedom of my remarks upon dress 
and furniture, I should fall under their con- 
demnation for undervaluing what is elegant, 
and wishing to discard what is ornamental ; 
or, in other words, of being indifferent to the 
influence of beauty in general, as it may just- 
ly be said to refine our feelings, and enhance 
our enjoyments. 

Without presuming to refer such readers 
to a work of my own,* in which they would 
find that my admiration of the beautiful, 
wherever it may be found, is scarcely inferior |} 
to theirs; I will simply express my convic- |} 
tion, that the exercise of good taste, which | 
must ever be in accordance with the princi- 
ples of beauty, fitness, and harmony, is by no 
means confined to the display of what is 
costly, elaborate, or superb; but may at all 
times be sufficiently developed in the ar- 
rangement of what is simple and appropri- 
ate. Indeed, there are nicer distinctions, and 
more exquisite sensibilities, required in the | 
happy distribution of limited means, than in 
the choice and arrangement of the most cost- 
ly ornaments which money can procure. In 
accordance with this fact, we almost invaria- 
bly find writers of fiction bestowing what is 
gorgeous and elaborate upon scenes and 
characters with which the best feelings of 
the heart have little connection; while the 
favorite heroine is universally made con- 
spicuous in her simplicity, and at the same 
time pre-eminent in her good taste. 

But in addition to other considerations, it 
is in the present day so easy as to be com- 


gar, for all persons, both high and low, to 
adorn themselves and their houses to the 


* The Poetry of Life. 


utmost extent of their pecuniary means ; 
and they are also enabled to do this with 
a certain appearance of taste, because to 
that class of persons who supply the requi- 
site articles of dress and furniture, it has 
become their study to ascertain what is most 
approved in the highest circles, as well as 
what is most ornamental and becoming in 
itself And thus individuals who have but 
little taste themselves, may easily supply 
their deficiency by consulting what are called 
the first tradespeople, or those who sell to 
the highest purchasers. 

How much more exquisite, then, raniat be 
the good taste, and delicate feeling, of her 
who has no such assistance to call in; who 
expends but little money upon the entertain- 
ment of her friends, in order that she may 
see them the oftener, and with a less painful 
tax upon her household ; but who is still able 
so to conduct her household: arrangements, 
that while there is no distressing appearance 
of excessive preparation to alarm her guests, 
an aspect of elegance and comfort is thrown 
over the most familiar things, so as to convey 
the idea of her family affairs being always 
conducted in strict accordance with the prin- 
ciples of taste—of that taste which consults 
the beauty of fitness and order, and which 
permits no extravagance or excess to inter- 
fere with the perfect harmony of its arrange- 
ments. 

Here, then, we see the value of having 
made good taste one of the studies of early 
life; for when the cares and anxieties of a 
household, added to the actual occupations 


of the mistress of a family, press upon the 


sometimes over-burdened wife, she will find 
little time, and perhaps less inclination, to en- 
ter into any abstruse calculations upon these 
points; and hence we too frequently gee 
among married women, a deterioration of 
character in this respect; for where one 


single woman is careless and slovenly in her 
appearance or habits, there is reason to fear 
we might find many in the married state, 
who might justly be suspected of having lost 
their regard for those embellishments which 
depend upon the exercise of good taste. 


DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 


pe | 


In pursuing the subject of domestic man- 
agement, we are again struck with the im- 
portance of speaking of things by their proper 
names; for by some strange misnomer, those 
women have come to be generally called good 
managers, who put their whole souls into the 
business of providing for the mere bodily ex- 
igences of every day; and thus the more re- 
fined, and sometimes the more intellectual, 
who have no idea how many good principles 
may be exemplified in the proper regulation 
of a household, have imbibed a sort of dis- 
taste for good management, as if it necessa- 
rily belonged exclusively to the province of 
the ignorant, or the vulgar-minded. 

Managers, indeed, those household tor- 
ments may be, who live perpetually in an 
element of strife and discord, where no one 
who valued their own peace would wish to 
live with them; but good managers they cer- 
tainly are not. It is not, therefore, in abso- 
lute bustle and activity, nor yet in mere clean- 
liness, order, and punctuality, that the per- 
fection of domestic management consists; for } 
where the members of a household are nas 
to feel that they pay too dearly, by the loss 
of their peace and comfort, for the cleanli- 
ness, order, and punctuality of the mistress, 
all claim on her part to the merit of good 
management must be relinquished. 

It is most difficult, however, to be suffi- 
ciently solicitous about such points of obser- 
vance, and not irritated by the neglect of them 
in others. Hence it is often said that. ill- 
tempered servants are the cleanest and most 
orderly ; because the exactness and precision 
which regulate their conduct, produce in un- 
enlightened minds, a tendency to exact the 
same from others; and where this is impos- 
sible to be effected, produce’a petulance and 
dissatisfaction which obtain for them the char- 


_acter of being ill-tempered ; while an opposite 


disposition, careless of order, cleanliness, or 
punctuality, obtains sometimes with great in- 
justice the merit of being good-tempered, 
simply because any deviation from these 
points occasions to such a mind no disturb- 
ance whatever. 

It has appeared to me ever since I was ca- 


pable of extreme annoyance or extreme en- 
joyment from such causes, that the perfec- 
tion of good domestic management required 
so many excellences both of head and heart, 
as to render it a study well worth the atten- 
tion of the most benevolent and enlightened 
of human beings. For when we consider the 
simple fact, that it comprehends—nay, is 
mainly dependent upon the art of giving to 
every thing which comes within the sphere 
of practical duty its proper weight, and con- 
sequently its due share of relative importance, 
we see at once that it cannot be within the 
province of a common or a vulgar mind con- 
sistently to do this, more especially as there 
must not only be the perception to find out, 
and the judgment to decide upon things gen- 
erally, but the good feeling—and here is the 
great point—to make that subservient which 
is properly inferior. Thus all selfish consid- 
erations must be set aside, all low calcula- 
tions, all caprice, all vanity, all spite. And 
in how many instances do all these, with a 
multitude of other enemies to peace and hap- 
piness, mix themselves up with what people 
persist in calling good management, but which 
from this lamentable admixture, makes no- 
body like such management, or wish to be 
where it prevails! 

Perhaps it has occurred to not a few of us 
to see one of these reputed good managers, 
bustling about a house from one apartment 
to another, peeping into corners, throwing 
open closets, emptying drawers, with a coun- 
tenance which bid defiance for the time to 
every gentle or kindly feeling; and calling to 
one person, despatching another, or enumer- 
ating the misdeeds of a third, with a voice 
which even in its distant and unintelligible 
utterance, had the bitter tone of raking up 
old grievances, and throwing them about like 
firebrands on every side. And then the burst- 
ing forth of the actual eruption, where such 
a volcano was perpetually at work! The 
fusion of heated and heterogeneous particles 
into one general mass—the outpouring indis- 
criminate and vast—the flame, the smoke, the 
tumult! what is there, I would ask, in the 
absence of harmless dust, or in the presence 


+4 


78 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


of the richest and best concocted food, to re- 
pay the wretched family where such a mana- 
ger presides, for what must be endured 
through the course of any single day ? 

No-—-let me live in peace, is the natural 
demand of every human heart; and so far 
as relates to our cookery, and our carpets, 
we are happily all able to do this. We must, 
therefore, settle it in our minds, that whatever 
excellences may be attained in the prepara- 
tion of food, the care of clothing, the arrange- 
ment of furniture, or the general order of 
rooms, that can never be called good man- 
agement, which fails to secure peace, and to 
promote happiness. 

Not that I would undervalue the care of 
the body, so far as tends to preserve health, 
and ensure cheerfulness; or, what is still 
more important, so far as serves to evince a 
high degree of tenderness and affection, strong 
evidence of which may sometimes be con- 
veyed through this channel, when no other 
is open. It is the swpreme importance at- 
tached to these cares and anxieties, which 
prevents such a system of management being 
properly called good. 

In order to maintain general cheerfulness, 
and promote happiness throughout your 
household, it is essential that you cultivate 
within your own mind, a feeling of content- 
ment with your home, your servants, and 
your domestic affairs in general, remembering 
that nothing which occurs to you in this de- 
partment is the result of mere chance, but 
that all your trials, as well as your enjoy- | 
ments, are appointed by a kind Providence, || 
who knows better than you can know, 
exactly what is ultimately best for you. It is 
consequently no more a deviation from what 
you ought to be prepared to expect, that 
your servants should sometimes do wrong, 
that your plans should be thwarted by folly 
and perverseness, or that your house should 
be old and inconvenient; than that the blos- 
soms in your garden should occasionally be 
blighted, or that a shower should fall at the || 
moment you had fixed for going out. 

Yet, to maintain this desirable cheerfulness 
through all circumstances, is certainly no | 


ee 


DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 79 | 


easy task, unless both health and temper 
| have been carefully attended to before mar- 
| riage; for when the former fails, it is but nat- 
| ural that the animal spirits should fail too ; 
| and defects of temper if long indulged, so as 
to have grown into habit, will, in the general 
conduct of domestic affairs, be able to infuse 
a taint of bitterness into the kindest endeav- 
ors, so as effectually to defeat the best inten- 
tions. 

How necessary is it, therefore, for all 
women to have learned to manage them- 
selves, before undertaking the management 
of a household, for the charge is both a seri- 
ous, and a comprehensive one; and how- 
ever inexperienced a wife #nay be, however 
helpless, uncalculating, and unequal to the 
task, she no sooner takes upon herself the 
duties of a mistress, than she becomes, in a 
great measure, responsible for the welfare of 
every member of the family over which she 
presides. And not only is this her situation 
in the ordinary course of things, but on all 
extraordinary occasions, she must be at the 
same post, ever on the alert, prompt to direct, 
and ready with expedients suited to every 
emergency that may occur. 

In cases of illness more especially, though 
the more laborious duties of the sick-room 
nh may with propriety be deputed to others, 
there can be no excuse for the mistress who 
does not make it her business to see. that 
proper attention is paid to the directions of 
the doctor, as well as to the ventilation of 
rooms, and all those other means of allevia- 
ting pain, or facilitating recovery, instead of 
which, inexperienced nurses are so apt to 
substitute \notions and nostrums of their 
| own. 

But beyond the care of the patient, that of 
the nurse also devolves upon the mistress of 
the house, to see that her wants are properly 
supplied, that a judicious distribution of her 
time is made, so as to allow of a reasonable 
portion of rest; or, if wearied out, to take 
eare that her place is supplied, so that none 
may have to complain of hardship or oppres- 
| sion. And here we may observe by the way, 
| that this kind of care and consideration be- 


stowed upon those who habitually bear the 
burden of domestic labor, constitutes one of 
the strongest bonds which can exist between | 
a mistress and her servants; besides re- 
warding her, in many instances, by a double 
measure of their gratitude and their faithful- 
ness. 

If the mistress of the house, as is not un- 
frequently the case with kind-hearted women, 
should take charge of the patient herself, it 
then becomes her duty not to act so entirely 
from the impulse of feeling, as to neglect her 
own health. Imention this, because there is 
a kind of romantic devotion to the duties of 
the sick-room, more especially where the suf- 
ferer is an object of interest or affection, which 
carries on the young nurse from one day of 
solicitude to another, without. refreshment, 
without rest, and without exercise in the open 
air, until nature being completely exhausted, 
she herself becomes a source of trouble, and 
an object of anxiety and care. By this apparent 
generosity, the kindest intentions are often 
frustrated ; while the household of such a 
mistress will necessarily be thrown into 


is most important that order and quiet shouid | 
be maintained throughout. 

To those who please themselves with the 
idea that such romantic self-devotion is the 
extreme of generosity, it may appear a cold 
kind of reasoning to advocate the importance 
of self-preservation, by frequently taking 
exercise at short intervals in the open air. 
Yet, I own I am one of those who prefer the 
kindness which lasts, to that which expends | 
itself in sudden and violent effort; and I | 
would, therefore, strongly urge upon the 
wife not only to attend to such means of pro- 
longing her own usefulness, but to see that 
the nurse employed under her direction does 
the same. 

Nor is it only in such cases as that already | 
described, that married women are apt to 
neglect the best means of maintaining cheer- | 
fulness, and preserving health, two blessings | 
which they above all other persons have the 
most reason to estimate highly. Not that I 
would insinuate an idea of any culpable ne- 


80 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


glect, of the employment of doctors, or the 
use of medicines. I believe this can scarcely 
be charged upon the wives of England, as a 
general fault. But I have known some wo- 
men almost entirely neglect all kinds of ex- 
ercise in the open air, either because they 
were too busy, or it tired them too much; or, 
for that. most amiable of all reasons, because 
their husbands were absent, and they were 
too dependent to walk alone. And thus, from 
the very excess of their affection, they were 
satisfied, on a husband’s return, to be weary, 
listless, dispirited, and altogether incapable of 
adding to his enjoyment, whatever he—hap- 
py man that he must be, to be so tenderly 
beloved !—might add to theirs. 

But fortunately for the character of woman, 
and may we not add, for the patience of man, 
there are happier methods of proving the ex- 
| istence of affection than that which is exhibit- 
ed by the display either of an excessive and 
imprudent self-devotion, which effectually de- 
feats its own object ; or a weak and childish 
dependence, which is nothing better than a 
sort of disguised selfishness. In accordance 
with deeper and more chastened feelings of 
regard, is that system of careful but quiet 
watchfulness over the general health of a hus- 
band, or a family, which detects every symp- 
tom of indisposition, and provides against all 
unnecessary aggravation of such symptoms 
by any arrangement of domestic affairs which 
can be made so as to spare an invalid, or 
prevent the occurrence of illness. 

I believe that nothing tends more to the 
increase of those diseases classed in popular 
phraseology under the head of bilious, which 
prevail so extensively in the present day, 
than long fasting, with heavy meals at the 
close of the day. Where fashion is the root 
of this evil, it is to be supposed that the suf- 
ferers have their own reward; at all events, 
a mere matter of choice, it would be impetti- 
nence to interfere with; but in the case of 
those husbands whose business calls them 
from home during the greater part of every 
day, surely something might be done by the 
wife, to break through this habit, either by 
supplying them with intermediate refresh- 


a me 


ment, or inducing them by persuasion or ar- 
gument to make some different distribution 
of their time. 

And where symptoms of indisposition do 


appear, how beautiful is that display of affec- |} 


tion in a wife, who can put aside all her own 
little ailments for the more important consid- 
eration of those of a husband; who can bear 
without a murmur to have her domestic af- 
fairs at'any moment deranged, so as may 
best suit his feelings or his health; and who 
can make up her mind with promptness and 
cheerfulness, even to accompany him from 
home, at any sacrifice of her own comfort 
and convenience! How precious then is the 
health and the ability to do this, and to do it 
with energy, and perfect good-will—how 
much more precious than the childish fond- 
ness to which allusion has already been 


made, which would lead her to sit and faint | 


beside him in his illness, or to neglect the ex- 

ercise necessary for her own health, because, 

forsooth, she could not walk without him! ~ 
Nor let it be imagined from the familiar 


and apparently trifling nature of the instances |; 


adduced in relation to the subject of domestic 
management, that the subject itself is one of 
little moment. Necessity compels the selec- 
tion of only a few cases from the mass of evi- 
dence which might be brought to prove how 
many important principles may be acted up- 
on in the familiar transactions of every day. 
The woman of naturally restless and irritable 
temper, for instance, who, without controlling 
her own feelings, would effectually destroy 
the peace of every member of her household, 
may by habits of self-government, and by a 
kind and disinterested regard for the happi- 
ness of those around her, so far restrain the 
natural impetuosity of her character, as to 
become a blessing instead of a torment to the 
household over which she presides; while 
the tender and affectionate wife, who would 
fondly and foolishly waste her strength by 
incessant watching over a husband, ora child, 
may, by the habit of making impulse subser- 
vient to judgment, preserve her health for 
the service of many a future day, and thus 
render herself, what every married woman 


ought to be—the support and the comfort of 
her whole household. 
We see here, although the instances them- 
selves may appear insignificant, that in these 
two cases are exemplified the great princi- 
ples of disinterested kindness, prudence, and 
selfgovernment. And thus it is with every 
act that falls within the sphere of female duty. 
The act itself may be trifling; but the motives 
by which it is sustained may be such as to 
do honor to the religion we profess. And 
we must ever bear in mind, that not ohly do 
we honor that religion by engaging in public 
services on behalf of our fellow-creatures, or 
for the good of our own souls; but by re- 
straining evil tempers, and selfish disposi- 
tions, in the privacy of our own domestic 
sphere; and by cherishing for purposes of 
practical usefulness, those amiable and benev- 
olent feelings, which are not only most en- 
dearing to our fellow-creatures, but most in 
accordance with the perfection of the Chris- 
tian character. 
In turning our attention again to the prac- 
tical part of female duty, as connected with 
domestic management, that important study 
| which refers to the best means of economiz- 
| ing time and money, is forcibly presented to 
| our notice.- Having dwelt at considerable 
| length upon the subject of economy of time 
| ina former work,* I shall not repeat the ar- 
guments there made use of to show the im- 
portance of this great principle of good man- 
agement; but simply state, that if essential 
before marriage to the attainment of intel- 
lectual or moral good, and to the welfare and 
comfort of those with whom we are connect- 
ed; it becomes doubly so when the mistress 
of a house has not only to economize her 
own time, but to portion out that of others. 
| In this, as in all other cases where good 
influence is made the foundation of rightly- 
exercised authority, the married woman must 
not forget that example goes before precept. 
Whatever then may be the trial to her natu- 
| ral feelings, she will, if actuated by this prin- 
ciple, begin the day by rising early; for it is 


* The Daughters of England. 


DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 


in vain to urge others to do what they see that 
we have not either the strength, or not the 
inclination to do ourselves. Besides which, 
there is little inducement for servants or 
other inferior members of a family to rise 
early, when they know that the business of 
the day will be delayed by the mistress 
herself not being ready ; while, on the other 
hand, if prepared to expect that she will be 
up early herself; there are few who could be 
so unaccommodating as to thwart her wish- 
es by not endeavoring to be ready at the ap- 
pointed time. : 

Nor is there any thing depending upon 
ourselves which tends more to the proper 
regulation of the mind, as well as the house- 
hold, than the habit of rising early—so early 
as to have time to think, as most persons do 


in the morning hours, clearly and dispassion- : 


ately ; when, free from the disturbance of feel- 
ing so often excited by contact with others, 
the mind is at liberty to draw its own con- 
clusions, from a general survey of the actual 
state of things, uninterrupted by any partial 
impressions received through the medium of 
the outward senses. Thus it often happens, 
that in the early morning we are brought to 
serious and just conclusions, which we should 
never have arrived at, where the actual cir- 
cumstances which gave rise to our reflections, 
were transpiring beneath our notice, or had 
the persons most intimately connected with 
such circumstances been present during the 
formation of our opinions. | 

The morning, then, is the time for review- 
ing the actions and events of the previous 
day, and for forming, for that which has com- 
menced, a new set of plans, upon the con- 
victions which such a calm and impartial 
review is calculated to produce. The morn- 
ing is the time for gathering our thoughts 
together, for arranging our resources, and for 
asking with humble reverence that Divine 
assistance, without which we have no right to 
expect that the coming day will be spent more 
satisfactorily than the past. 

Such are the higher advantages derived 
from habits of early rising, but there are also 
practical duties to be attended to by all mar- 


i | 
re ee 
a = 


SS SS Sn 


82 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


ried women, in the commencement of the | neglected by the waste of so valuable a talent 


day, which must be so managed as not to in- 
terfere with, or delay the business of others ; 
or the end of early rising will be entirely de- 
feated, as regards its good influence upon the 
general habits of a family. 

I mention this, because there are some 
well-intentioned persons, who habitually rise 
early, and are yet habitually too late for 
breakfast, wondering not the less every day 
how it can possibly be that they are so. To 
such I would venture to hint, that despatch is 
an excellent thing in whatever we have to 
do; and that the habit of trifling is one of 
the most formidable enemies to good inten- 
tion in this respect, because at the same time 
that it hinders our practical usefulness, it be- 
guiles us into the belief, that we are actually 
doing something—nay, even a great deal ; 
yet, look to the end, and nothing isreally done. 

If such persons are unacquainted with the 
merits of despatch, or refuse to adopt it as a 
wiser and a better rule, I know of nothing they 
can do, except it be to rise a little earlier, and 
a little earlier still, until they find that they 
have exactly proportioned their time to their 
requirements ; but on no account ought they to 
allow the breakfast, or the business of the day, 
to be retarded so as to meet their convenience. 
Whatever time they take from sleep is their 
own, and they have aright to dispose of it as 
they please ; but that time can scarcely be call- 
ed so, which is portioned out to others, espe- 
cially where it is barely sufficient for the busi- 
ness they are required to do through the 
course of the day. 

Perhaps it is with us all too frequent a 
mistake to suppose that time is our own, and 
that the higher our station, and consequently 
the greater the number of persons subject to 
our control, the more entirely this is the case. 
I have already said that the time we take 
from sleep, may with some justice be called 
so; but except in a state of existence entirely 
isolated, and exempt from relative duties, I 
am not aware how conscientious persons can 
trifle with time, and not feel that they are 
encroaching upon the rights of others, to say 


nothing of the more serious responsibility | they would never again require urging to | 


committed to their trust. 

There is no time perhaps so entirely wasted 
as that which is spent in waiting for others, 
because while expectation is kept up that 
each moment will terminate our suspense, we 


/ cannot prudently engage in any other occu- 


pation. If, then, the mistress of a house, by 
habitual delay of breakfast, keeps as many as 
four persons waiting half an hour every 
morning, she is the cause of two valuable 
hours being wasted to them, which they 
would most probably have preferred spend- 
ing in any other way rather than in waiting 
for her. 

It must of course be allowed, that every 
master and mistress of a family enjoys the 
right of breakfasting as late as they choose, 
provided they give directions accordingly ; 
but where there is one in the middle ranks 
of society who will order breakfast at ten, 
there are twenty who will order it at eight, 
and not be ready before nine. It can only 
be to such. deviations from arrangements 
made by the heads of the family, and under- 
stood by all its members, that the foregoing 
observations apply. 

It is a great point in the economy of time, 
that different kinds of work should be made 
to fill up different intervals. Hence the great 
value of having a variety of needlework, 
knitting, &c.; for besides the astonishing 
amount which may thus almost imperceptibly 
be done, a spirit of contentment and cheer- 
fulness is much promoted by having the 
hands constantly employed. Thus, if ever 
the mistress of a house spends what is called 
the dark hours in idleness, it is a proof that 
she has either not properly studied the arts 
of knitting and netting; or that she is a very 
indifferent workwoman not to be able to pay 
for the use of candles. Could such persons 
once be brought to appreciate the really bene- 
ficial effects of constant employment upon 
the mind and temper, could they taste those 
sweet musings, or enjoy those ingatherings 
of thought, which are carried on while a piece 
of work is growing beneath their hands, 


| 


ae 


those habits of industry which may tru- 
ly be said to bring with them their own re- 
ward. 

Habitually idle persons are apt to judge 
of the difficulty of being industrious, by what 
it gosts them to do any thing they may hap- 
pen to undertake; the movements of a natu- 
rally indolent person being composed of a 
series of painful exertions, while the activity 
of an industrious person resembles the mo- 
tion of a well-regulated machine, which, 
having been once set at work, requires com- 
paratively little force to keep it going. It is 
consequently by making industry a habit, and 
by no other means, that it can be thoroughly 
enjoyed; for if between one occupation and 
another, time is allowed for sensations of 
weariness to be indulged, or for doubts to be 
entertained as to what shall be done next, 
with those who have much to do all such 
endeavors to be industrious must necessarily 

_ be irksome, if not absolutely laborious. 
How pitiable then is the situation of that 
married woman who has never fully realized 
the true enjoyment of industry, nor the. ad- 
vantages of passing rapidly from one occu- 
pation to another, as if it was the business 
of life to keep doing, rather than to wait to 
see what was to be done, and to question the 
necessity of doing it! Pitiable, indeed, is that 
Woman, because in a well-regulated house- 
hold, even where the mistress takes no part 
in the executive business herself; there must 
still be a constant oversight, and constant 
forethought, accompanied with a variety of 
calculations, plans, and arrangements, which 
to an indolent person cannot fail to be irk- 
some in the extreme; while to one who has 
been accustomed to rely upon her own re- 
sources in the constant exercise of industry, 
they give a zest and an interest to all 
the duties of life, and at the same time im- 
part a feeling of contentment and cheer- 
fulness sufficient of itself to render every 
duty light. 

There is no case in which example is more 
closely connected with influence than in this. 
A company of idle persons can keep each 


other in countenance to almost any extent ; 


DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 


83 


while there are few who cannot be made 
ashamed of idleness by having constantly 
before them an example of industry. Thus 
where the mistress of a house on extraordi- 
nary occasions is ever ready to lend assistance 
herself; where she evinces a decided prefer- 
ence for doing things with her own hand, 
rather than seeing them left undone; and 
where it is known that her mind is as quick 
to perceive what is wanted as her hand is 
willing to execute it; such a mistress will 
seldom have to complain that her servants 
are idle, or that they cannot be brought 
to make the necessary effort. when extra 
work has to be done. 

There is, however, a just medium to be 
observed between doing too much, and too 
little, in domestic affairs; and this point of 
observance must be regulated entirely by the 
circumstances of the family, and the number 
of servants employed. It can never be said 
that the atmosphere of the kitchen is an ele- 
ment in which a refined and intellectual wo- 
man ought to live; though the department 
itself is one which no sensible woman would 
think it a degradation to overlook. But in- 
stead of maintaining a general oversight and 
arrangement of such affairs, some well-inten- 
tioned women plunge head, heart, and hand 
into the vortex of culinary operations, think- 
ing, feeling, and doing what would be more 
appropriately left to their servants. 

This fault, however, is one which belongs 
but little to the present times. It was the 
fault of our grandmothers, and we are en- 
deavoring to improve upon their habits by 
falling into the opposite extreme, forgetting, 
in our eagerness to secure to ourselves per- 
sonal ease and indulgence, how many good 
and kind feelings may be brought into exer- 
cise by a participation in the practical part 
of domestic management—how much valua- 
ble health, and how much vivacity and cheer- 
fulness, alternating with wholesome and real 
rest, are purchased by habits of personal ac- 
tivity. 

But it is impossible to do justice to this 
subject without entering into it fully, and at 


considerable length ; and having already done | 


OR 


84 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


a 


this elsewhere,* under the head of “ Kind- 
ness and Coasideration,” I will spare the 
reader a repetition of my own sentiments 
upon a subject of such vital importance to 
the wives of England. 


CHAPTER X. 
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 


THE generai tendency of domestic manage- 
ment should be, to establish throughout a 
household the principles of order, justice, and 
benevolence. 

In speaking first of order, I would not be 
understood to restrict the meaning of the 
word to such points of observance as the 
placing of chairs in a drawing-room, or or- 
naments on a mantelpiece. The principle of 
order, in its happiest development, has to do 
with the state of the mind, as well as the 
personal habits. Thus a due regard to the 
general fitness of things, correct calculations 
as to time and means, with a just sense of 
relative importance, so as to keep the less 
subservient to the greater, all belong to the 
department of order in a well-governed house- 
hold, and should all be exemplified in the 
general conduct of the mistress. 

There is no surer method of maintaining 
authority over others, than by showing that 
we have learned to govern ourselves.” Thus 
a well-ordered mind obtains an influence in 
society, which it would be impossible for 
mere talent, without this regard to order, 
ever to acquire. All caprice, all hasty or 
violent expressions, all sudden and extrava- 
gant ebullitions of feeling of any kind what- 
ever, exhibited before servants and inferiors, 
have a tendency to lower the dignity of a 
mistress, and consequently to weaken her 
influence. ) 

The mistress of a house should always 


appear calm, and perfectly self-possessed, 


* The Women of England. - 


whether she feels so or not; and if from an 

accumulation of household disasters, partic- 

ularly such as makoccurrences before her 

guests, the agitation of her feelings should 

be too great for her powers of self-control, 

she may always find a natural and appropri- 

ate outlet for them, by sympathizing with 

other sufferers in the same calamity, and thus 

evincing her regard for them, rather than for” 
herself. 

Nor ought we to class this species of self- 
discipline with those artificial manners which 
are assumed merely for the sake of effect. 
If the same individual who controlled her 
feelings before her guests, should go out 
among her servants and give full vent to 
them there, such a case would certainly de- 
serve to be so classed. But the self-control 
I would gladly recommend, is of a widely | 
different order, extending to a mastery over | 
the feelings, as well as the expressions. In’ 
the former case, a lady seated at the head of | 
her table, will sometimes speak in a sharp 
whisper to a servant, with a countenance in | 
which all the furies might be represented as 
one; when suddenly turning to her guests, 
she will address them with the blandest 
smiles, even before the cloud has had time to 
vanish from her brow. In the latter case, 
the mistress of the house will recollect, that 
others have been made to suffer perhaps 
more than herself, and that whatever the 
cause of vexation or distress may be, it can 
only be making that distress greater, for her 
to appear angry or disturbed. By such 
habits of reflection, and by the mastery of 
judgment over impulse, she will be able in 
time, not only to appear calm, but really to 
feel so ; or if there should be just as much 
excitement as may be agreeably carried off 
in condolence with her friends, there will 
never be sufficient really to destroy either 
their comfort, or her own peace of mind. 

In speaking of the beauty of order, would 
that it were possible to impress this fact upon 
the minds of English wives—that there is 
neither beauty nor order in making their ser- 
vants and their domestic affairs in general, 
the subject of conversation in company. To 


Sa SS 


oe? 


ss 


wees.” 


hear some good ladies talking, one would 
really think that servants were a sort of 
plague sent upon the nation at large, and 
upon them in particular. To say nothing of 
the wrong state of feeling evinced by allow- 


comfort to be habitually regarded as a bane 
rather than a blessing ; we see here one of 
those instances in which the laws of order 
are infringed by a disregard to the fitness of 
things ; for however interesting our domestic 
affairs may be to ourselves, it requires but 
little tact or observation to discover, that they 
| interest no one else, unless it be our nearest 
and most intimate friends, whose personal 
regard to us will induce them to listen with 
kindness to whatever we describe as being 
connected with our welfare or happiness. 

Upon the same principle, a history of bodily 

ailments should never be forced upon visit- 
ors; for as it requires either to be an intimate 
friend, or a member of the same family, to 
feel any particular interest in the good or 
bad practices of servants ; so it requires that 
our friends should be very tenderly attached 
to us to care about our ailments, or even to 
listen with any real attention when we make 
them the subject of conversation. Inallsuch 
cases, it is possible that a third party may be 
more quick to perceive the real state of things 
‘than the party most concerned ; but I own I 
have often wondered what the habitual com- 
plainer of household and personal grievances 
could find to induce her to go on in the 
averted look, the indifferent answer, and the 
absent manner of her guests; yet, such is 
the entire occupation of some minds with 
subjects of this nature, that they are scarcely 
alive to impressions from any other source ; 
and perhaps the surest way to prevent our 
annoyance of others, is to recollect how often 
| and how much we have been annoyed in 
this way ourselves. 

It is, then, no mean or trifling attainment 
| for the mistress of a house to be thoroughly 
} at home in her own domestic affairs; deeply 
| interested in the character and habits of all 

the different members of her household, so as 
to extend over them the care and the solici- 


Nm es jt 


ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 


ing one of our greatest sources of personal 


85 


tude of a mother ; and yet before her guests, 
or in the presence of her friends, to be per- 
fectly disengaged, able to enter into all their 
causes of anxiety, or hope, and above all, to 
give an intellectual character and a-moral 
tendency to the general tone of the conver- 
sation in which she takes a part. With no- 
thing less than this strict regulation of the 
feelings, as well as the habits, this regard to 
fitness, and this maintenance of order in the 
subserviency of one thing to another, ought 
the wives of England to be satisfied ; for it is 
to them we look for every important bias 
given to the manners and the morals of that 
class of society upon which depends so much 
of the good influence of England as a nation. 
A love of order is as much exemplified by 
doing any thing at its proper time as in its 
appropriate place; and it rests with a mis- 
tress of a house to see that her own time, 
and that of her servants, is judiciously pro- 
portioned out. Some mistresses, forgetting 
this, and unacquainted with the real advan- 
tages of order, are in the habit of calling their | 
servants from one occupation to another, || 
choosing extra work for them.to do on busy 
days, crowding a variety of occupations into 
one short space of time, and then complain- 
ing that nothing is thoroughly done; while 
others will put off necessary preparations un- 
til so late that everybody is flurried and con- 
fused, and well if they are not out of temper 
too. Itmay possibly have occurred to others 
as it has to myself, to be present where, on 
the occasion of an evening party being ex- 
pected, all the good things. for the entertain- 
ment had to be made on the afternoon of the 
same day. I need hardly add that when the 
guests arrived, neither mistress nor servants 
were in a very fit state to go through the 
ceremonial of a dignified reception. 
Forethought, then, is a most essential quai- 
ity in the mistress of a house, if she wishes 
to maintain throughout her establishment the 
principle of order. Whatever others do, she 
must think. It is not possible for order to ex- 
ist, where many minds are employed in di- 
recting a variety of movements. There 
must be one presiding intellect to guide the 


ie 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


on 


| 


whole; and whether the household to be 
governed belong to a mansion or a cottage, 
whether the servants to be directed be many 
or few, that presiding power must be vested 
in the mistress, or in some one individual 
deputed to act in her stead. It is from leav- 
ing this thinking and contriving part, along 
with the executive, to servants, that we see 
perpetuated so many objectionable and ab- 
surd methods of transacting the business of 


one generation to another, and acted upon 
sometimes with great inconvemence and 
equal waste, simply because habit has ren- 
dered it a sort of established thing, that 
whatever is done, should be done in a cer- 
tain manner; for servants'are a class of 
people who think but little, and many of 
them would rather take double pains, and 
twice the necessary length of time in doing 
their work the old way, than risk the experi- 
ment of a new one, even if it should ever 
occur to them to make it. 

It must rest with the mistress, then, to in- 
troduce improvements and facilities in the 
transaction of household business; and she 
will be but little fitted for her office who has 
not studied before her marriage the best way 
of doing common and familiar things. What- 
ever her good intentions, or even her meas- 
ure of good sense may be, she will labor un- 
der painful disadvantages, and difficulties 
scarcely to be overcome, by taking up this 
study for the first time after she has become 
the mistress of a house; for all points of 
failure here, her own servants will be quick 
to detect, and most probably not slow to 
take advantage of. 


ee a RS ET AN RL SAN, SY STN 
a a 
SIS AEE SS RR DED AADAC ALIA a AEE DDD a A LIE IS 
aa a eae eee eet ee 
a ee 


A married woman thus circumstanced, will 
certainly act most wisely by studiously con- 
cealing her own ignorance; and in order to 
do this. effectually, she must avoid asking 
foolish questions, at the same time that she 
watches every thing that is done with care- 
ful-and quiet scrutiny, so as to learn the how 
and the why of every trivial act before en- 

gaging in it herself, or even venturing a re- 
mark upon the manner in which it may be 
| done by others. 


domestic life; methods handed down from. 


But essential as knowledge is to good do- 


mestic management, we must ever bear in | 


mind that knowledge is notall. ‘There must 
be a love of order, a sense of fitness, a quick 
perception of the appropriateness of time 


and place, lively impressions of reality and | 


truth, and clear convictions on the subject of 
relative importance; and in order to the com- 
plete qualification of a good wife and mis- 
tress, there must be along with all these, not 
only a willingness, but a strong determina- 


tion to act upon such impressions and con- | 


victions to the full extent of their power to 
promote social, domestic, and individual hap- 
piness. 


And if all these requirements are to be | 


classed under the head of order, we must 
look for those which are still more serious 
under that of justice. 

The word justice has a somewhat start- 
ling sound to female ears, and I might per- 
haps be induced to use a softer expression, 
could I find one suited to my purpose; 
though after all, I fancy we should none of 
us be much the worse for having the word 
justice, in its simple and imperative strict- 
ness, more frequently applied to our relative 
and social duties. It is, in fact, a good old- 
fashioned notion, that of doing justice, which 
has fallen a little too much into disuse; or 
perhaps, I ought rather to say, has been dis- 
missed from its place among female duties, 
and considered too exclusively as belonging 
to points of law and cases of public trial. 

I am well aware that justice in its highest 


sense belongs not to creatures frail, short- | 


sighted, and liable to deception like our- 
selves ; but that strong sense of truth, and 
honesty, and individual right, which we 


naturally include in our idea of the love |} 
of justice, was surely given us to be éxer- || 
‘eised in our dealings with each other, and in 


the general conduct of our domestic affairs. 
This regard to what is just in itself, necessa- 
rily including what is due to others, and what 
is due from them also, is the moral basis up- 
on which all good management depends ; for 
when once this foundation is removed, an 
inlet is opened for innumerable lower mo- 


te 
ee ee 


ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 87 


tives, such as selfishness, vanity, caprice, and 
a host of others of the same unworthy char- 
acter, to enter and mix themselves up with 
the conduct of daily life. 

We cannot therefore be too studious to de- 
tect, or too prompt to overcome, these ene- 
mies to right feeling and to duty ; and I be- 
lieve we shall be best enabled to do this, with 
the Divine blessing upon our endeavors, by 
a habit of constantly stretching our ideas to 
the broad and comprehensive nature of jus- 
tice in general—justice in its simplicity and 
its strictness, without deterioration from the 
influence of custom, and without those quali- 
fications which owe their existence to an arti- 


| ficial state of society. 


Imbued with a strong sense of justice, the 
kind and considerate mistress will see that 
every member of her household has some 


| rights which others ought not to be allowed 
to infringe; and if she be attentive to the 


welfare of her family, she will find sufficient 
exercise for her love of justice in the settle- 
ment of all differences which may arise out 
of the clashing of individual interests. Even 


‘the most insignificant member of such a 


family, that unfortunate attached to almost 
all establishments under the name of “the 
boy,” all from him down to the very animals, 
will have their rights, and such rights can 
only be consistently maintained by the au- 
thority of one presiding mind. 

Thus the abuse or the neglect of domestic 
animals can never prevail to any great extent, 
where the mistress does her duty ; for though 
servants will sometimes lavish their caresses 
upon such creatures, they are for the most 
part careless about their actual wants; and 
unless properly instructed, and even looked 
after in this respect, they will sometimes be 
absolutely cruel. The mistress of a house 
may thus have an opportunity of teaching 
her servants, what they possibly will have 
had no means of learning at home, that these 
are creatures committed to our care by their 
Creator and ours, and that we have no more 


right to practise cruelty upon them, than we 


4 


shave to disobey the righteous law of God in 


any other respect. 


Regarding the important subject of econo- 


my in its character of a great moral obliga- 
tion, rather than simply as an individual 
benefit, I shall place it under the head of jus- 
tice; and I do this in the humble hope, that 
when so classed, it may obtain a greater 
share of serious attention than could be de- 
sired, were the subject to be considered the 
mere act of saving money. True economy, 
and that which alone deserves our-regard as 
a study, I have already described as consist- 
ing in doing the greatest amount of good with 
the smallest pecuniary means—not only good 
to the poor, and to society in general, but 
good to the family of which we form a part; 
and of course this study includes the preven- 
tion of absolute waste in any department 
whatever. Such a system of economy, I 
consider to be entirely distinct from the mere 
act of saving money; except so far as that 
all economical persons will endeavor to save 
money to a certain extent, in order that they 
or their families may not be dependent upon 
others. A sense of justice will also induce 
them to make a suitable provision for those 
under their care, without doing which they 
have certainly no right to be generous. 


necessary to the exercise of justice. We 
shall therefore turn our attention the more 
seriously to a few hints on the most common- 
place of all subjects—that of saving. 

Nor let the refined and fastidious young 
wife, retaining all her boarding-school con- 


‘tempt for such homely household virtues, 


dismiss the subject with the hasty conclusion, 
that such studies are only for the vulgar or 
the low. ‘There are those who could tell her, 
that there is a vulgarity in extravagance, of 
which the really well-bred are seldom guilty ; 
and that no persons are so much addicted to 
the lavish and indiscriminate waste of money, 
as those who have been raised from low birth 
and education to affluent means. 

But it is impossible to believe that the 
sound-minded, honest-hearted, upright wo- 
men, who form the majority of English wives, 


should deceive themselves by notions so ab-— 


Every thing necessary to the practice of this |. 
kind of equitable economy, is consequently 


88 


surd as these; and I only wish it were pos- 
sible to embody in the present work, the 
united evidence of such women in favor of 
the plans they have themselves found most 
conducive to the promotion of comfort and 
economy combined. 

I place these two words together, because 
that can never be called good management, 
which has not reference to both, or which 
extracts from the one for the purpose of add- 
ing to the other; that can never be called 
good management, where economy takes pre- 
cedence of comfort, except only in cases of 
debt, where comfort ought unquestionably’to 
give place to honesty ; and still less can that 
be called good management where comfort is 
the only consideration, because the higher con- 
sideration of justice must then be neglected. 

In order to carry out the principle of jus- 
tice in her household transactions, it is highly 
important that the mistress of a family should 
make herself thoroughly acquainted with the 
prices and qualities of all common and famil- 


iar things, that she may thus be enabled to 
pay equitably for every thing brought into her 


house. These are opportunities of observing 
or violating the laws of justice, which few 
mistresses have the energy, and still fewer 
the inclination, to look after themselves; and 
they are consequently left for the most part 
to servants and trades-people to adjust as 
they think proper, each regarding their own 
interest and convenience, as it is perfectly 
natural that they should. Servants of course 
prefer having every article of household con- 
sumption brought to the door; and in large 
towns this is easily managed by small traders 
in such articles, who can regulate their prices 
as they think proper, without the cognizance 
of the mistress of the house, and sometimes 
without any direct reference to what is the 
real marketable value of their property. That 
too much is trusted to interested parties in 
such cases as these, must be clear to the 
meanest understanding ; for we all know the 
tendency there is in human nature, to use for 
selfish purposes the power of doing what is 
not strictly right, and especially where this 
can be done without fear of detection. 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


In the “Daughters of England” I have 
strongly recommended that young women.|} 
should cultivate habits of attention to the 
public as well as the private affairs of the 
country in which they live, so far as to ob- 
tain a general knowledge of its laws and in- 
stitutions, and of the great political move- 
ments taking place around them. The abuse 
of such knowledge is to make it the basis of 
party feeling and political animosity ; but its 
proper and legitimate use is that which ena- 
bles respectable, influential,.and patriotic wo- |: 
men, to carry out the views of an enlightened 
legislature through those minor. channels 
which form the connection between public 
and private life, and the right direction of 
which is of the utmost importance to the 
welfare of the country in general. 

How little do women, poring over their 


| worsted work, sometimes think of these 


things! How little do they reflect, that not 
only is it a part of their duty to govern their 
household well, but so to govern it, that those 
wise and benevolent enactments designed for 
the good of the nation at large, which it has 
been put into the hearts of our rulers to 
make, may not be frustrated for want of their 
prompt and willing concurrence! When once 
this idea has been fully impressed upon the 
mind of woman, she will not, she cannot, 
think it a degradation to use every personal 
effort for the correction of public abuses, 
rather than it should be said, that while the 
legislature of England evinced the utmost 
solicitude for the happiness of the people, 
there was not patriotism enough among her 
women to assist in promoting their general 
good. 

But to return to particular instances of do- 
mestic economy. The habit of making what 
are called “cheap bargains,” does not appear 
to me worthy of being classed under this 
head; because the principle of economy 
would inspire a wish to pay an equitable and 
fair price for a good article, rather than a low 
price for a poor one; and in ninety-nine cases 
out of a hundred, articles offered for sale as 
being remarkably cheap, are of very inferior | 
quality. | 


But above all other things to be guarded 
against in making bargains, is that of taking 
advantage of the poor. It is a cruel system 
carried on by the world, and one against 
which woman, with her boasted kindness of 
heart, ought especially to set her face—that 
of first ascertaining the position, or degree 
of necessity of the party we deal with, and 
then offering a price accordingly. Yet, how 
often do we hear the expression—“TI get it 
done so well, and so cheaply ; for, poor things, 
they are in such distress, they are glad to do 
it at any price!” 


work, and fine work too, that is done upon 
such terms. A pitiful thing it is to think of 
the number of hours which must have been 
| spent, perhaps in the endurance of hunger 
and cold, before the scanty pittance was earn- 
ed; and to compare this with the golden 
sums so willingly expended at some fashion- 
able milliner’s, where, because the lady of the 
house is not in want, the kind-hearted pur- 
chaser would be sorry to insult her feelings 
by offering less. 

The same principle applies to ready pay- 
ment of the poor. It is a mockery of words, 
to tell them you have no change. The poor 
know perfectly well that change is to be had; 
and when you tell them to call again in a few 
days, or when it is more convenient to attend 
to them, perhaps the disappointed applicant 
goes sorrowing home, to meet the eager 
glance of a parent, or a child, who has been 
all day calculating upon some article of food 
or clothing, which that little payment was ex- 
pected to have furnished them with the means 
of procuring. 

Iam aware that disappointments of this 
kind are sometimes unavoidable; but I ap- 
peal to my country women, whether as a mere 
matter of convenience, the poor ought to be 


dependent, because of their greater influence, 
and the higher respect in which they are 
held, are paid in a prompt and willing man- 


nience or difficulty. 


ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 


And a pitiful sight it is to see the plain. 


sent empty away, when the rich and the in- | 


ner, nothing being said either about inconve- | 


To all persons, however, whether high or 


89 | 


low, rich or poor, it is highly important to 
good management that frequent payments 
should be made. Weekly payment of all 
trades-people is the best, because then neither 
party has time to forget what has been bought, 
and they are consequently less likely to make 
mistakes in their final settlement. Asa check | 
upon such mistakes in the making up of ac- | 
counts, it is indispensable that all bills should | 
be kept for a year at least after their payment; | 
and though this practice may at first appear | 
useless and troublesome, ample satisfaction | 
will eventually be derived by exemption from 
all that uncomfortable feeling which arises | 
from uncertainty in this respect—from an idea | 
of having either injured another, or being in- ; 
jured one’s self. ; | 

There is a foolish habit to which many |}, 
shopkeepers are addicted, of persuading mar- 
ried women, and particularly the young and 
inexperienced, to purchase on credit. When 
they see a lady evidently tempted, looking at | 
an article again and again, and repeatedly | 
asking the price, as if in the hope each time 
of finding it less, it is perfectly natural in them, | 
if they know the respectability of their cus- 
tomer, to fall in with her weakness, and, ac- 
commodating themselves to her inadequate | 
means, to offer the tempting article, to be paid | 
for on some distant day. It is still more fool- } 
ish, therefore, in the woman who goes unpro- 
vided for such a purchase, to trust herself so |} 
far as to trifle with temptation; but the ex- | 
treme of her folly, is to allow herself to be 
prevailed upon, at last, to take what she 
cannot pay for, and probably does not really 
want. 

It is often stated by imprudent women, as | 
an excuse for buying what they do not need, 
that it was “so extremely cheap;” but that | 
must always be a dear article to us which we | 
have no use for; and the money which such | 
things would cost must, in the end, prove | 
more valuable than the cheapest goods which | 
are not necessary, or not calculated to be | 
of use. | 

Married women who love justice to them- | 
selves as well as to others, should always | 
keep strict accounts. Without some evidence | 


90 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


of this kind, husbands are sometimes a little 
incredulous, and such a proof of the right 
distribution of her means, no one need hesi- 


tate to show. While, however, the husband. 


is thus enabled to see for himself what has 
been the actual expenditure, it must not be 
supposed that he is qualified to judge in all 
cases of the necessity for such expenditure 
being made. The wife alone can do this; 
and if she enjoys that inestimable blessing to 
a married woman, her husband’s confidence, 
he will be satisfied that all the rest is right, 
whether he understands it or not. There is 
no doubt, if he was consulted about every 
purchase to be made, he would think in some 
instances that the article could be done with- 
out; while in others, he would probably 
choose a far more expensive one than was 
necessary. A wise and prudent woman will, 
therefore, so manage these affairs, as to ob- 
tain the privilege of having them left entirely 
to her judgment. 

She will find too, that economy does not 
consist so much in buying little, as in buying 
suitably ; for a house or a wardrobe may be 
so scantily supplied, that each article has to 
do the service of many, and is thus prema- 
turely worn out, or effectually destroyed, by 
being put to uses for which it never was de- 
signed. The poor girl who has but a thin 
pair of shoes, and no money to buy stronger, 
must unavoidably destroy them in one day’s 
journey ; when, had they been used only for 
proper purposes, they might have lasted a 

; year. And it is the same with a scantily fur- 
nished kitchen. Absolute waste to a very 
great extent must necessarily be the conse- 
quence of having but few implements for 
daily use, and making them serve every pur- 
pose as occasion may require. With the best 
supply of kitchen utensils, however, their se- 
lection and use ought not to be left entirely 
to servants. The mistress herself must some- 
times direct in this department, unless she 
would see the amount of her bills alarmingly 
increased by the habit most servants have, 
of snatching up what is nearest to them, 
rather than thinking what is fittest to be used. 
The same rule applies to household linen, 


of which an ample supply, given out with 
regularity and judgment, will always be found | 
most economical in the end. But on no ac- 
count whatever let any deficiency in this de- 
partment, or in that of your kitchen, be sup- |} 
plied by borrowing. There is no occasion for 
the defects of your establishment to be made 
known to others, and, except in sases of ex- 
traordinary emergency, if you cannot afford 
to purchase what is wanted, the sooner you 
learn to do without it the better. 

With regard to food, too, I am inclined to 
think that to have a table comfortably sup- 
plied with a moderate variety of dishes, is 
by no means inconsistent with the strictest 
economy. I have sometimes even fancied 
that a spare dinner had the effect of produc- 
ing a very disproportionate appetite; at least 
I remember, when a girl, having occasionally 
the privilege of sitting down to a table of this 
kind, when I always felt most perversely in- 
clined to eat up every thing that was set be- 
fore me. 

But leaving this fact to be settled by politi- 
cal economists, it must be allowed that per- 
sons in general are not so childish as to eat 
more, because they see more; and in the ap- 
pearance of a well-supplied table, there is an 
air of comfort and respectability, which un- 
der ordinary circumstances, I cannot think 
we should derive any advantage from giving 
up. Besides which, a certain extent of va- 
riety affords opportunity for bringing out 
again, ir a more attractive form, many things 
which inust have been otherwise dismissed 
altogetwr. In this art the French have ar- 
rived at great perfection; and asa proof of 
the correctness of these observations, the 
cheapness of their way of living is always a 
subject of surprise to the English, on their 
first acquaintance with French habits. 

Still, we must feel that the system is a dan- 
gerous one, when it leads to excess; far bet- 
ter—far better is it to eat the last morsel of 
plain food prepared every day, than to give 
the time, and the thoughts, too much to the 
preparation and enjoyment of food. 

But the great point to be observed, both in 
the study and the practice of economy, is to 


proportion your expenditure to your means. 
The differénce, even of a hundred a year, in 
the income of a family, makes a considerable 
difference in the duties of the mistress with 
regard to economy. Thus, it may be highly 
meritorious for one married woman to do all 
her needlework herself, while, in another, it 
would evince a disregard for the fitness of 
things, to spend her time in doing what she 
would be more in the way of her duty to em- 
ploy the poor and the needy to do for her. 

In all these cases, it is evident that princi- 
ple, rather than inclination, must form the 
basis of our actions; and in following out the 
principle of justice more especially, that self 
must hold a very inferior place in our calcu- 
lations. The same may be said of those du- 
ties which follow, and which are comprised 
under the head of benevolence; for though 
selfishness and generosity may, in the first 
view, appear to be directly opposite in their 
nature, the act of giving is, in many cases, 
only the gratification of a refined selfishness, 
with which the principle of integrity has to 
wage determined war. Thus there can be 
no generosity in giving what is not, strictly 
speaking, our own, nor justice in receiving 
thanks for what we had no right to give. 

To be solicitous either to give, or to receive, 

costly presents in your own family, is a sort 
| of childish weakness, and particularly to ex- 
pect such presents from a husband, for where 
there is a perfect identity of feeling and pos- 
session, both as regards money and goods, 
the wife may just as well purchase the val- 
uable article for herself. There is, however, 
something gratifying to every heart in being 
remembered during absence; but the gratifi- 
cation consists rather in finding that our tri- 
fling wants have been thought of and sup- 
plied, than that the indulgence of our self-love 
or our vanity has had to be taken into ac- 
count; and a thimble in such a case may be 
more valuable than a costly gem. 

The married woman, as soon as she takes 
upon herself the responsibility of standing at 
the head of an establishment, should with- 
draw herself in a great measure from those 
I} little obligations and kindnesses, which as a 


add, that the fewer supplicants and hangers- 


ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. ere) | 


the study of a lifetime to learn how to give 


to the poor to exaggerate their own wants and 


care might have converted into a wholesome 


young woman and unmarried, she might 
with propriety have received. She must, 
therefore, strictly avoid courting such favors, 
especially from the great, remembering that 
in being the mistress of a house, she has her- 
self become a source from whence kindness 
ought to flow, and consequently is not so 
proper an object for receiving it. | 

To be “just before we are generous,” is a 
good old maxim. ‘The duties of benevolence 
must, therefore, always be made subservient 
to those of integrity. But still, where a fami- 
ly is neither in debt, nor in want of the com- 
mon necessaries of life, there must be some- 
thing due from such a family to those who 
are more needy than themselves. 

It is a privilege we all enjoy, of being at 
liberty to choose our own way of being char- 
itable; yet if we think seriously on the sub- 
ject of giving, as a duty, and regard our 
means as only lent to us for the purpose of 
doing the greatest possible amount of good {I 
which they are capable of effecting ; we shall 
find that instead of its being the mere indul- 
gence of a natural impulse, to give, it is often 


judiciously. 

To judge by the frequency of its practice, 
one would suppose that one of the most ap- 
proved methods of serving the poor, was to 
give away at the door pieces of broken or 
otherwise objectionable food. Yet I am dis- 
posed to think that, upon the whole, more 
harm than good results from this practice ; 
for, to say nothing of the temptation it offers 


a 
eS » = 


sufferings, the temptation to servants is no 
trifling one, to be perpetually adding to the 
charitable hoard, what a little ingenuity or 


or palatable dish. Besides which it is impos- 
sible that any family should be able to furnish 
a regular supply of such food, and the disap- 
pointment of the really destitute must be very 
great, on those days when they are obliged 
to return home to set down to an empty 
table, or perhaps to go supperless tobed. In | 
addition to which objections, we may safely 


eS 
Oe ee 


92 


about, to be found at our doors, the better. 
Those are seldom the most needy who ask 
assistance in this way, and happily for our 
benevolence, there are innumerable channels 
now open, through which we may at least 
endeavor to do good with less probability of 
doing harm. 

In the exercise of kindness to the poor, care 
is often necessary to avoid falling into popu- 
lar mistakes with regard to the merit of cer- 
tain cases, which after all frequently consists 
in nothing more than a few circumstances of 
interest attaching tothem. The tide of fash- 
ion, when it takes a charitable course, will 
sometimes pour a perfect flood of benefits 
upon certain individuals, to the neglect of 
others equally deserving, and perhaps more 
in need. But the mistress of a family, whose 
mind is well governed, will be her own judge 
in such matters, and not allowing either in- 
dolence or self-indulgence to stand in her 
way, nor even deputing the task to others, she 
will, as far as it is possible to do so, examine 
the case for herself, in order that she may 
not be led away by the partial statements 
or highly colored representations of her 
friends. 

For all the purposes of benevolence, she 
will also keep a separate provision, and sep- 
arate accounts, in order to ascertain at the 
end of the year, or at any particular time, 
what has been the exact proportion of her 
resources thus distributed. Without this 
kind of record, we are apt sometimes to fancy 
we have been more generous than is really 
the case; or, on the other hand, we may 
have been liberal beyond what was just, for 
it is not the number of cases we relieve, 
which has to be considered, so much as the 
due proportion of our means which is be- 
stowed upon charitable purposes. : 

When the duty of benevolence, extended 
through offices of charity, is considered in 
this light, as being no duty in some cases, 
and in others one of serious extent and re- 
sponsibility, and thus bearing, through all the 
intermediate degrees between these two ex- 
tremes, exact reference to our pecuniary 


| means, to our situation in life, and to the 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


number of relative claims we have to fulfil, it | 


will easily be seen, that to lay down any pre- 
cise rules for the amount of money which 
ought to be expended in charity, would 
be presuming upon an extent of knowledge 
which no single individual can possess. 
Besides which, there are so many ways of 
doing good, that benevolent feeling can often 


find free exercise through channels which 


could scarcely be considered as belonging to 
what is generally understood by charity. 

But while perfectly aware that little can be 
done in the way of benefiting our fellow-crea- 
tures, without regard to their spiritual wel- 


fare, I own I am one of those who would | 


wish that the bodies, as well as the souls of 


the poor might be cared for ; nor can I think 
they would be less likely to attend to instruc- |} 
tion, for being comfortably clothed and suffi: | 


ciently fed. 

The mistress of a family, when truly benev- 
olent, will not rest satisfied with merely giv- 
ing to the poor. She will visit them in their 
dwellings, make herself acquainted with their 
habits, characters, and circumstances: and 
while urging upon them their religious duties, 
or recommending such means of religious in- 
struction as may be within their reach, her 
own experience in the practice of econo- 
my will enable her occasionally to throw in 


a few useful hints on the best method of ; 


employing their scanty means, so as that 
every thing may be turned to the most use- 
ful account. 
ciously and kindly given, is often more valu- 
able than money would be without it; and 
those who have but little to give, may often, 


by such means, extend their influence to as | 


wide a circle of usefulness, as if they had 
thousands at their disposal. 

The indigent and the suffering are often 
good judges of what is real, and what is pre- 
tended sympathy, or of what is meant for kind- 
ness, without sympathy atall. Thus the most 
sincere and fervent zeal for their spiritual 
improvement often fails to produce any ef- 


fect, simply from the fact of little attention | 
being paid to their temporal affairs, or only | 
such as they can perceive at once to be un- 


Assistance of this kind, judi-: 


ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 93 


accompanied by any feeling of sympathy. It 
is a happy constitution of mind, therefore, 
which has been given to woman, no doubt 
for holy and benevolent purposes, which en- 
ables her with a quick and sensitive feeling 

to enter into all the minutie of daily expe- 
rience, without interruption to those higher 
aims which must occupy the supreme atten- 
tion of every Christian woman in her inter- 
course with those who are brought under her 
influence or her care. 

The advantages of adaptation are never 
more felt than in our association with the 
poor. By a look ora tone, they may be at- 
tracted or repelled. Yet how little do some 
worthy people think of this, when they speak 
to the poor in an authoritative, or disrespect- 
{ ful manner! It is good to bear about with us 
the remembrance of this fact—that we have 
no more right to be rude to the poor than to 
the rich. Even as regards household ser- 
vants, so strong is the feeling of that class of 
persons in this respect, that I believe mis- 
tresses who never deviate from a proper 
manner of speaking themselves, have sel- 
| dom occasion to complain that their servants 
speak improperly to them. 

In every mistress of a family, the poor of 
her immediate neighborhood should feel that 
they have a friend, and where the principle 
of benevolence has been strongly implanted 
in the heart, such a mistress will esteem this 
consideration too high a privilege to allow any 
regard for mere personal interest to interfere 
with the just discharge of so sacred a trust. 
Yet to befriend the poor substantially, and 
with reference to their ultimate good, all who 
have made the experiment will allow to be a 
difficult, as well as a sacred duty, requiring 
much patience, forbearance, and equanimity 
of mind, with much confidence in a superin- 
tending Providence, and faith in Him who 
chose his own disciples among the poor. 

That benevolence which commences its 
career with high expectations of reward in 
this world, is sure to be withered by disap- 
fointment. Indeed, there is so much to dis- 


courage the exercise of charity for the sake 
of producing great and conspicuous results, 
that most persons who begin upon this prin- 
ciple, end by having their temper soured, their 
confidence destroyed, and their minds embit- 
tered by uncharitable feelings towards their |} 
fellow-creatures in general. “The poor are 
so ungrateful,” is their frequent remark-= * so 
dishonest, so requiring; there is no pleasure 
in doing any thing for them.” But how dif- 
ferent is the spirit which prompts these com- 
plaints, from that of the Bible, where the poor 
are mentioned in almost every page, and 
where the duty of kindness and consider- 
ation towards them is enforced upon the 
simple ground of their being poor, without 
regard to ‘any other merit or demerit what- 
ever! 

Nor is it to the poor alone, but towards her 
fellow-creatures in general, that the woman 
who undertakes the superintendence of a fam-» 
ily, should cultivate feelings of kindness and 
benevolence. Men, engaged in the active 
affairs of life, have neither time nor oppor- 
tunity for those innumerable little acts of con- 
sideration which come within the sphere of 
female duty, nor are they by nature so fitted 
as woman for entering into the peculiarities 
of personal feeling, so as to enable them to 
sympathize with the suffering or the distressed. 
But woman, in the happiest exercise of her 
natural endowments, enjoys all those requi- 
sites which are combined in a real friend; 
and as such she ought always to be regarded | 
at the head of her domestic establishment— 


‘a friend with whom all within the reach of 


her influence may feel that their interests are 
safe—a friend in whose sympathy all may 
share, and in whose charity all may find a 
place. No one, however, can be such a | 
friend as this, without having cultivated be- 
nevolent dispositions towards the human 
race in general, without feeling that all are 
members of one great family, only differently | 
placed for a short period of their existence, 
and that all are objects of kindness and care } 
to the same heavenly Father. 


§ 


94 


CHAP. XI. 
TREATMENT OF SERVANTS AND DEPENDANTS. 


Ir, as soon as a woman marries, she has 
the services of domestic assistants at her 
command, she has also devolving upon her 
the responsibility of their comfort and their 
general welfare ; and it is a serious thought 
that she cannot, by any means, escape from 
this responsibility, whatever may, in other 
respects, be the privileges and indulgences of 
her situation. Neither the affection of her 
husband nor the kindness of her friends can 
do any thing to relieve her here, except only 
so far as their advice may aid her judgment ; 
but as the mistress of a house she must be 
the one responsible being for the habits, and, 
in a great measure, for the circumstances of 
those who are placed under her care. 

By the thoughtless or inexperienced it may 
be asked how this should be, since servants 
are expected to care for us, not we for them? 
Such, however, is not the language of a 
Christian woman, with whom it will be im- 
possible to forget that her influence and ex- 
ample must unavoidably give a tone to the 
character of her whole household ; and if 
there be no solicitude for a bias to be given 
| towards what is good, it must unavoidably be 
towards what isevil. Itis morally impossible 
that it should be neither one way nor the 
other, because the very time which a servant 
‘| spends beneath a master’s roof, will, of ne- 
cessity, be confirming old habits, if not spent 
in acquiring new ones; and thus while fondly 
persuading yourself that because you are 


doing nothing you cannot be doing harm, | 
you may, in reality, be guilty of the sin of © 
| omission, which, in cases of moral responsi-— 


bility, is often of the most serious conse- 
quence. 


It is too frequently considered that servants 
are a class of persons merely subject to our 


authority. Could we regard them more as 
placed under our influence, we should take 


a wider and more enlightened view of our 


own responsibilities with regard to them. 
And after all, it is influence rather than au- 
thority which governs a household ; not but 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


that every mistress has a right to expect im- 
plicit obedience, all neglect of which is inju- . 
rious to both the parties concerned, and in 
order to enforce which, her orders should al- 


ways be given in as clear and decided a man- |} 
ner as possible, leaving nothing, except where || 
it is absolutely necessary, to contingencies, || 


to make the purpose her own, and not to al- 
low the servant an opportunity of feeling that 
she has overruled the plans of her mistress, 
and in reality substituted her own. 

Where the mistress is an ignorant one, 
these points of observance are very difficult 
to maintain, and the habit of giving foolish 


orders, inconvenient or impossible to be exe- 


cuted, and of finding that her servant is ca- 
pable of proposing what is at once more rea- 
sonable and much to be preferred, will, in all 
probability, reduce her to a mere nonentity 
as regards authority in her kitchen, and may 
ultimately be the cause of her withdrawing 
from all interference there. 

But necessary as it is that a rmastress should 
be implicitly obeyed, I repeat, that it is not 
by mere authority that a household can be 
well governed ; because there are innumera- 
ble ways in which servants can deceive with- 
out being detected, and carry on their own 
schemes while they appear to be adopting 


| those of a mistress; it is, therefore, by no 


other means than by the establishment of 
mutual feelings of confidence and respect, 
that we can hope to be as faithfully served 


and nothing to the choice of the servant her- | 
self, unless good reasons should be adduced | 
for a change of purpose; and then the or- | 
ders of the mistress should be so worded as | 


when absent, as when inspecting our affairs | 
in person; and as I have already said that a | 

kitchen can never be the proper element for |} 
: an enlightened woman to live in, the greater | 
confidence she feels in a right system being | 
carried on there, the more leisure she will | 
possess for other avocations, and the more |} 
happiness she will enjoy. if 


The question then arises, how is this right | 
understanding, and this perfect confidence to | 
be attained? I answer, first, by respecting |} 


the rights of servants, and secondly, by atten- \} 


TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 


peer an ae ee mn rr 


95 


tion to their interests. There are certain 
duties which you have a right to require of 
them, and among them is implicit obedience ; 
but there are also many things which even 


though they might greatly promote your con- 


venience, you have no right to require. You 
have no right to require a reduction of wages 
oelow what you first agreed to give, or in- 
deed, any deviation from what was stipulated 
for in that agreement. And here it may be 
well to observe, that all particular require- 
ments with regard to dress and personal 
habits, should be mentioned at that time, so 
that no disappointments or disputes may af- 
terwards arise. Notes should also be made 
of such arrangements, with the time of hir- 
ing, and ‘the rate of wages: and when all 
these things in the beginning are clearly stated, 
and fully understood, it may tend greatly to 
the prevention of unpleasant consequences. 
Whatever your own circumstances may 
be, it is the right of your servants to have a 


|| sufficiency of rest, and of wholesome food ; 


and even in cases of sickness, or other exi- 


|| gency, you have noright to require that either 

should be given up; to request it as a kind- 
|| ness, is the only proper manner in which a 
_ servant should be brought to make such con- 
| cessions ; and we have often a beautiful ex- 


ample for imitation in the perfect willingness 


| with which, when thus treated, they will de- 


ny themselves personal indulgence, more 
especially sit up night after night with the 
sick, without in the intermediate times neg- 
lecting their daily work. 

It is a delicate part of good management, 
but a very important one in maintaining in- 
fluence, to keep always clear distinctions on 
these points, and not even to demand the 
pillow from the servant’s bed, remembering 
that all things essential to their daily suste- 
nance and nightly rest, have been stipulated 
for in your first agreement, and that your ser- 
vants are consequently under no greater ok- 
ligation than other members of your family, 

to give up what may be classed under the 
head of bed or board. But I must again ob- 
serve, that there is a manner of requesting 


| ‘| tinue until the end of the day. 
these things to be done, when required on 


any extraordinary occasion, which seldom 
meets with a refusal, or even with an unwil- 
ling compliance. 

A certain degree of care of your servants’ 


health is a species of kindness which they | 


always feel gratefully, and which is no more 
than ought to be shown by the mistress to- 
wards every member of her household. In- 
deed it is impossible to imagine a kind-hearted. 
woman neglecting the pallid looks, and lan- 
guid movements of those who are spending 
their strength in her service; and if she be 
at the same time a lover of justice, she will 
remember that the bodily exercise necessary 
for carrying on household labor during the 
day, requires a greater interval of rest than 
such occupations as are generally carried on 
in the drawing-room. Instead of which, how 
often do we find those on whom devolves 
the burden of this labor, required to rise two 
or three hours earlier than their mistress, 
and kept up at night as late as any of the 
household !—kept up perhaps to wait for 
the return of visitors, when another member 
of the family, allowed to rest longer in the 
morning, might as well have done so in their 
stead—kept up on a cold winter’s night to 
warm a bed, which the indulgent occupant 
might more properly have warmed herself, 
unless she had chosen to retire earlier—or 
kept up perhaps until a late hour for family 
worship ; a practice which requires no fur- 
ther comment, than to say, that except on 
very extraordinary occasions, or where great 
allowance is made in the morning for rest, 
no servants ought to be expected to attend 
family worship after ten at night. 

By allowing, and even requiring your ser- 
vants to retire early, you have a right to ex- 
pect their services early in the morning, 
without which, no household can be properly 
conducted ; for when the day commences 
with hurry and confusion in order to over- 


take lost time, the same state of things, only. 


aggravated by its unavoidable tendency to 

eall forth evil tempers, impatient expressions, 
and angry retorts, will in all probability con- 
| And here we 
| see, as in thousands of instances besides, the 


— 


— 


96 


importance of making ourselves acquainted 
with what belongs to nature, and especially 
that of the human heart. We may compel 
an outward observance of the laws we lay 
down for our own families, but we cannot 
compel such feelings to go along with their 
observance, as alone can.render it of any 
lasting benefit either to our servants or our- 
selves. Thus by rendering our service an 
irksome one, or in other words, not attending 
to what the constitution of human nature 
| requires, we effectually destroy our good influ- 
| ence; and if by bringing religion into the 
same hard service, we render it an irksome 
restraint, the mischief we do by this means 
may be as fearful in its extent, as it is serious 
and important in its character. But of this, 
more in another chapter. 

The same care which is exercised with re- 
gard to your servants’ heaith, should be ex- 
tended to their habits in general, and even to 
cases in which their good alone is concerned ; 
for it is an act of injustice to complain of the 
habits of this class of persons, without doing 
your part to form, upon better principles, 
those which come within the sphere of your 
influence. It is often objected to this duty, 
that nothing can be done for the good of 
; young servants, so long as they are encour- 
aged at home in what is foolish and wrong. 
The mothers then are clearly to blame; and 
certainly the mothers in many poor families 
are bad enough. But who made the mothers 
what they are, or helped to make them so? 
Unquestionably the negligent, injudicious, or 
unprincipled mistresses under whose influ- 
ence their early lives were spent. 

And have you not then sufficient regard 
for the welfare of future generations to begin 
a new system, by which the errors of the last 
may be corrected? For the little thoughtless 
girl just entering beneath ‘your roof—the 
young nursery-maid—she of whom nobody 
thinks, except to find fault when she has 
done wrong—she who perhaps never thinks 
herself, except to contrive how she shall man- 
age to purchase a ribbon like that upon her 
mistress’s cap—this very girl is gradually ex- 
periencing under your influence, and, nom- 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


inally at least, under your care, that great and 


important change of thought, feeling, and’ 


habit, which is not improperly called the 
formation of character; and this girl will 


consequently take away with her whatever 


bias she receives either from your neglect, or 
your attentions, first into other families, and 
then into her own, where she herself will 
probably in her turn have to train up Sapigee 
both for this world and the next. 

Will the wives of England then think me 
very extravagant in my notions of what is 
due towards servants, when I propose to 
those in the middle class of society, that as 


Christian women they should consider such. 


young servants as placed peculiarly under 
their care; because it is only by beginning 
early, that that great and radical change can 
be effected in the habits and character of ser- 
vants generally, which all unite in consider- 
ing as so urgently required. , 

If a mistress would really do this, and I 
cannot see how any responsible person so cir- 
cumstanced is justified in neglecting it, she 
would consider that some oversight of her 
servants’ wardrobe was absolutely necessary ; 
and as they grow older, and come to be in- 
trusted with money of their own, the same 
oversight should extend to their manner of 
spending it. It is an excellent thing when 


servants are allowed time for making their | 
own clothes, and it is no mean occupation | 
for the mistress of a house to teach them | 
I speak on the supposition , 
that she is acquainted with this art herself, | 
for I cannot imagine the education of an | 
English woman in the middle class of society | 


how to do so. 


complete, without her having become familiar 
with the art of making every article of dress 
she wears. Not that she is under any obli- 


gation to continue the practice of making her | 


own clothes; that is a totally different mat- 
ter; but as this class of women are situated, 
and taking into account all the probabilities 
of change of circumstance, failure of health, 
or failure of pecuniary means, I am convinced 
that no one could have to regret, while thou- 
sands might have to rejoice, at having ac- 
quired in early life an art so capable of 


ie 


eT ee 
Ne 


eee sa SR inp . Gres Leia Me 


being made useful both to themselves and 
others. 

I believe that one half of the forlornness, 
discomfort, and apparent destitution of the 
|| poor around us, arises, not so much from ab- 
solute want of means, as from the absence 
of all knowledge of this kind. They are un- 
fortunately but too ready to imitate us in our 
love of finery, our extravagance, and self-in- 
dulgence ; and it is a serious question whether 
they discover any thing else in us which they 
can imitate; but let them see our economy, 
our industry, our contrivance, and our soli- 
citude to turn every thing to the best ac- 
count, and I believe they would not be 
slow to imitate these habits as well as the 
others. 

The art of mending, for instance, though 
most important to the poor, is one in which 
they are lamentably deficient; and so much 
waste, disorder, and slovenliness, are the con- 
sequence of not being able to mend skilfully, 
that this department of neatness and econo- 
my is one in which all young servants should 
be carefully instructed; more especially as 
the making-up of new clothes is a much 
easier, as well as generally more agreeable 
task, than that of mending old ones, so that 
they look respectable to the last. 

By this kind of oversight of her servants’ 
wardrobe, a kind-hearted and judicious mis- 
tress may easily obtain some direction in the 
expenditure of their money, and in nothing 
is assistance to the poorer classes more ne- 
cessary than in this. ° Servants generally are 
pleased to have the approbation of a beloved 
and respected mistress in those cases over 
which she does not assume any direct author- 
ity; and they would be equally mortified to 
find they had incurred her disapprobation by 
the purchase of what was worthless, or un- 
befitting their situation. By this means, too, 
mistresses would generally be better able than 
they are, to understand what is sufficient, 
and consequently what is just, with regard 
to wages; for while, on the one hand, some 
require their servants always to look respec- 
table without allowing them the means to do 
so, others are induced by fashion or custom 


TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 


97 | 


to give higher wages than are really any 
benefit to the receiver. 

But the variety of instances are too numer- 
ous to specify, in which the Christian care 
and oversight of a good mistress may be in- 
valuable to a young servant. I will mention 
but one more, and that of greater importance 
than any which have yet fallen under our 
consideration. I mean the preservation of 
young servants from circumstances of expo- 
sure or temptation. 

Those who have never lived in large 
towns, and especially in London, would 
scarcely give credit to the facts, were they 
told the number of instances in which ser- 
vants are brought from the country, and be- 
ing obliged, from illness or some other cause, 
to leave their employers, are allowed to be 
cast upon the mercy of the public, friendless 
and destitue, and too often a prey to the 
cruel deceptions which are practised upon 
young females thus situated. Some of the 
most painful among the many distressing cir- | 
cumstances which come under the notice of | 
those Christian ladies who have the over- 
sight of female penitentiaries, are cases in 
which country servants have been brought 
to town, and having lost their health, or suf 
fered from accident, have been placed in 
hospitals, and left there without regard to 
their future destiny ; when, on coming out, 
they have found that all clue was lost to their 
former masters or mistresses, and that they 
were consequently alone in the streets of 
London, without money, without friends, and 
without the knowledge of any respectable 
place in which they might find shelter. 

It may be said that these are extreme 
cases, but it is lamentably true that these, 
and others of similar neglect, are not so 
rare as persons would suppose who are 
unacquainted with the practices of our large 
towns. 

Another evil against which mistresses 
ought to be especially on their guard, is 
the introduction of unprincipled char-wo- 
men, or other assistants, into their families. 
In the country it is comparatively easy to 
ascertain what is the general moral character 


ie earn ar een “ee ee a 


g 


a dS Se NE AR 


v2) 


of those around us; but in large towns this 
knowledge is more difficult to acquire, and 
incalculable mischief has often been the con- 
sequence of associating young servants with 
persons of this description. 

The practice of sending out young female 
servants late at night, to bring home any 
members of the family who may be out visit- 
ing, or placing them in any other manner 
unnecessarily in circumstances of exposure, 
are considerations to which we ought not to 
be indifferent; and the mistress who allows 
her servant to be thus circumstanced, would 
do well to ask herself how she would like a 
young sister, or a daughter, to be placed in a 
similar situation. Can it be that youth has 


not as strong a claim to our protection in the | 
Can it | 


lower as in the higher walks of life ? 
be that innocence is not as precious to the 
poor as to the rich? Did the case admit of 
any degree of comparison, I should say that 
it was more so; for what has a poor girl but 
her character to depend upon? Or when 
once the stigma of having deviated from the 
strict line of propriety attaches to her name, 
who is there to defend her from the conse- 
quences? Her future lot will in all probabil- 
ity be to become the wife of some poor and 
hard-working man, whose whole amount of 
worldly wealth will be comprised in the re- 
spectability of his humble home. Who then, 
through indifference or neglect, would allow 
a shadow to steal in, still less a blight to fall, 
where, in spite of poverty, in spite of trial, in 
spite of all those hardships which are the 
inevitable portion of the man who earns 
his bread by the labor of his hands, his 
home might still be an earthly paradise to 
him ? 

Young women of a higher grade in socie- 
ty, or those who are more properly called la- 
dies, being all taught in the great school of 
polished society, acquire the same habits of 
decorum, and even of modesty, to a certain 
extent; and the restrictions of society render- 
ing it more painful to deviate from such hab- 
ite, than to maintain them through life, we 
come, very naturally, to look upon them 
Father az a matter of course than as a merit. 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


estimating this charm, would for the wealth 
of worlds be the cause of its being lost. 


heart of a kind mistress will naturally sug- 


them. 


ing about whether a servant should be sent 
to a neighboring town before, or after, dinner. 
They themselves appearing to have no choice, 
it was suggested by another party, that the 
servant would prefer going in the afternoon. 
“He prefer it, indeed!” exclaimed the lady 
of the house; “then for that reason he shall 
go in the morning.” When it is added, that 
the lady was a most kind, and in many re- 
spects, truly excellent character, this fact is 
difficult to believe; and I am only induced 
to state it as a striking proof to what an ex- 
tent benevolent feeling may be restrained in 
its exercise, by the habit of thinking that ser- 
vants are merely passive instruments upon 
which authority ought to be exercised; and 
that, consequently, all pretension on their part 
to an equality of feeling with ourselves, as re- 
gards what is agreeable or otherwise, ought 
to be put down by the most prompt and de- 
cided measures. 

After all, however, it must be allowed, that 
there are some servants, and perhaps not a 
few, who cannot, by the best and most judi- 
cious tre:tment, be moulded to our wishes ; 
and with regard to these, if the case is a de- 


But in the modesty of a poor young girl there | 
is inexpressible beauty, because we know that | 
it must arise from the right feelings of her 
heart; and none who are capable of truly 


It is a common saying with servants, that | 
they do not fear work if well treated; and I | 
believe such little acts of consideration as the | 


gest, may be made to go much further in | 
stimulating them to a right performance of | 
their duty, than either high wages or great | 
| personal indulgence. A little consideration I 
shown for their wishes, where the matter is | 
one of little moment to their employers, is felt | 
by them as a real kindness, and often abun- | 
dantly rewarded by their willingness ‘and 
| alacrity in doing whatever is required of | 


An instance was once brought painfully | 
under my notice, where the mistress of a_ 
house and some of her family were consult- 


TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 


cided one, that they can neither do good to 
us, nor we to them, the sooner we get rid of 
them the better. Before deciding too hastily 
to part with a servant, we should, however, 


call into exercise all the charity we can, by 
| remembering how different their education 


and early treatment have been from ours, 
and if we cannot on this ground forgive them 


| some faults, either they or we must be wrong 
| indeed. 


Again, there may have been faults on our 
side as well as theirs. We may have been 
too lax in our discipline, for kindness ceases 


| to be such when it degenerates into negli- 


gence. ‘Thus, to permit servants to feel that 


| there are in your household departments of 
| duty which you never superintended, and 
| places and things secure from your inspec- 
| tion, is allowing them a license which few 


are so conscientious as not, in some measure, 


| to abuse. It may happen too, that you have 
| been expecting regularity from them, while 
you have failed to practise it yourself; or, 


that you have been requiring neatness, order, 
and punctuality, when your own example, 
on these points of observance, has been far 
from corresponding with your precepts and 
injunctions. 

That care should be exercised not to part 
too hastily with servants, is as much for the 
interest of one party as another; since the 


| distinction of a bad name as a mistress, is 
| sure to be felt in its natural consequence of 


| of all mistresses to make it a privilege to 


preventing good servants seeking employ- 
ment under such direction. It is in the power 


| live with them; but still, even this privilege 


will occasionally be abused. There are cases 
too, in which the natural dispositions of the 
two parties are not suited; and there is such 
a thing as a mistress becoming afraid of her 


| servant—afraid to thwart her plans, or afraid 
| to enforce others; and where such is the 
| feeling, whatever may be the excellences of 
2 the servant, that she is not in her proper 
| place with such a mistress, is sufficiently 
| evident. 


Instances of dishonesty, or other cases of 
serious moral delinquency, I have not deem- 


99 


ed it necessary to mention, because all must 
be aware of the importance of treating them 
in an equitable and summary manner. The 
only thing to be observed in relation to these 
is, that the evidence upon which we act 
should be clear and decisive. 

In all cases of dissatisfaction, it is good to 
bear in mind the familiar and true maxim, 
that “good mistresses make good servants ;”’ 
and that with persons who are constantly 
changing, some fault must rest with them- 
selves—some fault attributable either to mis- 
management or neglect—some fault arising 
either from too great indulgence, or too great 
severity, or perhaps from a mixture of both. 
And I am strongly disposed to think, that in- 
dependently of such faults, many of the griev- 
ances we complain of in our domestic affairs, 


‘and especially those which arise out of the 


foolish, perverse, or unprincipled conduct of 
our servants, might be obviated by more 


careful attention being paid to the formation 


of their character when young. 

That a better system is also required with 
regard to the practice of giving characters to 
servants, is universally allowed; yet few per- 
sons seem to have the moral courage to be- 
gin with a plan, which shall at once be more 
just to the employers and the employed. 
This weakness of purpose originates, no 
doubt, in an amiable feeling of anxiety, lest, 
by speaking of our servants as we have 
really found them, we should deprive them 
of a future home. The case unquestionably 
has its difficulties, yet as a moral obligation, 
it must be allowed, that the sooner we begin 
to act fairly and honestly, the better it will 
ultimately be, both for ourselves and those 
with whom we are associated; and there 


can be no doubt, that the confidence all ser- | 
vants feel in being able to obtain what is call- | 
ed a character, so long as they have not been | 
really dishonest, insolent, or disobedient, ren- | 
ders them more careless than they otherwise | 


would be, of those minor points of domestic 
duty, which, taken as a whole, form an ag- 
gregate of considerable importance to those 
who engage their services. ‘This, then, is 
one of those cases, in which the Wives of 


eee 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


England are called upon to assist each other, 
not only in making a strong determination, 
but in acting upon it, so far as to break 
through a popular and long-established prac- 
tice, by speaking of servants, when asked for 
their character, in such terms as they really 
deserve ; without reference to their worldly 
interests, or indeed to any thing but the sim- 
ple truth. If by such means a few of them 
should be longer than they now are in ob- 
taining situations, a great many would be 
more careful to fill their places to the satis- 
faction of the families by whom they are 
employed; and thus honesty would be found 
in the end, as it always is, to be the best 
policy. 

In addition to household servants, many 
married women have devolving upon them 
the serious responsibility of caring for appren- 
tices, or other assistants in the way of busi- 
ness; and in the discharge of these duties, it 
is most important for all who are thus cir- 
cumstanced to ask themselves, whether they 
are acting upon the golden rule of doing to 
others what they would that others should 
do to them, or to those in whom they are 
most warmly interested. If they are, their 
merit is great, and there can be no doubt but 
their reward will be so too; for we must all 
allow, that it requires no ordinary share of 
kind feeling, or of Christian principle, to do 
all which a high sense of duty requires in this 
respect. 

There are many reasons why the task is 
difficult—almost too difficult for mere human 
nature to perform; and it is not the least of 
these, that most young men who begin to 
learn a business, enter as strangers into a 
family at an age when they have little to re- 
commend them as companions, except to 
their own associates, or to a partial parent; 
yet at that precise time of their lives, when 


; the formation of their habits and character 
(| requires the strictest care. 


It is easy to ima- 
gine that few women would prefer spending 
much of their time with youths of fifteen, or 
eighteen years of age, in connection with 
whom they have no family tie, or strong con- 
necting interest; but why, on the other hand, 


the wife of a man who is engaged in busi- 
ness, to the successful pursuit of which she 


owes all her pecuniary advantages, should | 


hold herself above her husband’s clerks or 
apprentices, I never could distinctly see; 
more especially as time was when her own 
husband was thus situated, and most pro- 
bably time will be, when her sons will be the 
same. , 

Is it possible, then, that a mother thus 
circumstanced can look with indifference to 
the future, when the happy boy who plays 
beside her, the joy of her own heart, and the 


pride of his father’s—the spirited handsome | 
fellow who carries away the prizes at his | 
school, and lords it over his playmates, and | 


only softens into tenderness when he sees his 
mother’s tears—is it possible that she can 
think with indifference of the time when he 


shall be old enough to go out into a stran- || 


ger’s family—nay, actually be bound there 


for a term of years, and thus inwrought as it | 


were with the entire fabric of a new order of 
domestic arrangements, yet notwithstanding 
all this, made to sit apart, and to feel that he 
is not only an alien but an absolute intruder, 
as regards the mistress of that family and her 
friends? Could the fond mother follow her 
boy when thus circumstanced up to his own 
bedroom in the attic, and see how often, for 
want of a welcome at the household hearth, 
he sits there upon his box, and reads the 
books he brought from home, at the risk of 
being chidden for the light he has kept burn- 
ing ;—could she see the far-off way in which 
he sits at the family board, satisfying his hun- 
ger according to necessity, not choice ;— 
could she see the manner in which, from the 
very overflow of the life of his young spirit 
he is driven down and compelled to make 
merry with associates unfitted to himself, at 
least to that self with which he was identified 
in his father’s home, but which he has almost 
ceased to remember now ;—could she hear 
when he speaks how his voice is becoming 
gradually habituated to the utterance of low 
thoughts and words which never formed a 
part of the language of his home ;—but be- 
yona all this—could she see his Sabbaths— 


- 


his days of rest—those happy days, when the 
members of his father’s family used all to be 
united in equality of feeling, and solicitous 
only to give precedence to each other,—could 
she behold him walking the streets of some 
great town, and for want of home-attractions, 
for want of cordiality and welcome at his 
master’s fireside, familiarizing himself with 
the sinful practices of others similarly cir- 
cumstanced ;—could the mother, beholding 
all this, trace out its fearful and degrading 
consequences upon the future destiny of her 
boy, she would be ready to exclaim to the 


Should any such appeal be made, the mis- 
tress of that family would in all probability 
reply with indignation—“ The young men 
employed im my husband’s business enjoy 
the very best of food, they are not required to 
work beyond the hours agreed upon, and 
their sleeping-rooms are healthy and well 
furnished.” And all this may be strictly 
true, yet the mother’s heart may be unsatis- 
fied, for she knows, and we all know, that it 
is possible to be well cared for as regards the 
body, and yet be made to feel most destitute. 
We all know that there is a kind of treat- 
ment which elevates the moral feelings, and 
another which degrades them, rendering the 
spirit upon which it operates, grovelling, ser- 
vile, mean. And if this powerful influence 
should be made to weigh upon, and bear 
down the buoyant mind of youth, what must 
we expect, after such treatment, will be the 
downward tendency of old age? 

But is it possible, we ask again, that the 
mother whose natural instinct renders her so 
keenly alive to all these feelings as regards 
her own child, can be insensible to the claims 
of others !~can be induced by her own pride 
or her own selfishness to trample under foot 
the high moral obligation laid upon her, to 
be as a mother to her own household, but 

especially to the young, remembering that 
they will go forth into the world bearing the 
seal upon’ their foreheads of her maternal 
care, or of her most culpable neglect? Nor 
is this all. She must remember, too, that 
| these very youths are to constitute in after 


TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 


whose moral power are vested the interests 
during five or seven long years of the lives 
made upon their minds—is it right, or in any 
for this portion of their lives they should be 


subjected to a system of moral discipline, 


mistress of that household—“ Save my child!” | 
ble and beautiful instances of women who 


101 


life that strong phalanx of respectability, in 


of the people, and the welfare of the state. |} 
Is it right then—is it just—is it politic—that |} 


of such men—years in which the most last- 
ing impressions they ever will receive, are 


way to be reconciled to English women, that 


calculated, in almost every way, to lower 
them as future citizens of the world ? 
But it is not always thus. There are no- 


absolutely could not live upon such terms; || 
warm-hearted, patriotic women, who can- 
not sit down to their own tables without a 
cordial welcome for every one entitled to a || 
place at the same board—who, putting aside | 
all personal feeling, can even make friends |} 
of such associates, remembering that to their | 
parents and their country they are in a great 
measure responsible for the high or low posi- | 
tion such men may take in after life. Yes, | 
we are happy in believing there are those 
who would willingly bear all the annoyance 
or restraint of such society, were it tenfold | 
greater than it is,rather than be the cause of 
one young man being drawn out from home 
to seek enjoyment, or down into a lower 
grade of social fellowship, for a freedom and 
a cordiality which he could not find with her. | 
Contemptuously as young men will often | 
speak of the influence and the habits of wo- 
men in general, I believe there are few who 
may not in the early part of their lives, be 
more easily influenced by women than by 
men—by judicious women, I mean, for, not- 
withstanding the absurdities of which some |} 
youths are guilty themselves, they appear to 
be instinctively quick-sighted to the absurdi- 
ties of others, and especially to those of wo- 
man. In fact, they seem glad to lay hold of 
any excuse for despising them, and, even 
where they feel the greatest respect, will sel- 
dom acknowledge it openly or directly. But 
for all this, the cautious and well-ordered 
treatment of women tells upon their charac- 


ae 


102 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


ance under the infliction of their annoyances, 
| a little good sense, and a great deal of cheer- 
| fulness, an amiable woman will seldom fail to 
obtain, even without the assumption of any 
direct authority, an extensive influence over 
| the young men with whom she is associated. 

For this reason, and because the master of 
a family with whom it rests to exercise real 
authority cannot so well unbend, and make 
himself familiar with the young people under 
his direction, the claims of this part of the 
community are strong upon the wives of 
England, who as they value the comfort of 
their own sons, and estimate with regard to 
them the advantages of a high moral stand- 
ard, can surely not forget the interests of the 
stranger’s son committed to their care. 

The same observations apply with equal 
force to dependants of every description, ex- 
cepting only that those who are not bound, 
may be considered as at liberty to find situa- 
tions more suited to their ideas of comfort. 

But, above all others, the class of destitute 
or homeless relatives are most entitled to our 
consideration and kindness. Yet such is the 
weakness of human nature in cases of severe 
or protracted trial, that the good and the hap- 
piness of all parties seem to require as little 
mixing up as possible in the same household, 
of rich and poor relations. When the poor 
have to be provided for by more affluent rel- 


SE Ne I ES I SI OT DT DE ELIE TAILED PERE ADELE LLG 


I 
ters in the end; and by a little good-natured 
falling-in with their humors, a little forbear- 


atives, it is better—far better, to do this at a 
distance, or at least not associated as one 
family ; though such needful precaution has 
nothing whatever to do with the kindness 
which may often be most appropriately ex- 
tended towards them as guests, or indeed as 
members of the same family for a limited 
period. 

In all such cases, there are difficulties to 
be contended with on both sides, owing to 
the natural tendency in one party to suspect 
or imagine slights, and in the other to appre- 
hend or resist encroachments. One half of 
these, however, I am jully persuaded, might 
be obviated by a cendid and delicate mode 
of behavior on the p-ri of the mistress of a 


———— 


t ASS OR OE BT TEE ET PTS TT — 


house who entertains such relatives as guests. 
Her behavior must be delicate in the extreme, 
because she has to do with those whose pe- 
culiar situation renders them more than com- 
monly susceptible of pain: and it must be 
candid; because in all such cases the habit 
of leaving things to be understood is the 
surest way to produce misunderstandings. 
Still, the delicacy which would make no 
difference be felt, would fail in its object to 
do good; because as the world considers 
there is a vast difference between abundant 
and slender pecuniary means, there could be 
no kindness in persuading those who are but 
scantily supplied in this respect, that they are | 
to mix in society upon the same terms as the 
rich; and more especially after one or more 
generations have marked this difference be- 
tween them and their relatives by stronger 
characters. 


While it is left to all persons to decide ac- 
cording to their own judgment to what ex- 
tent they will cultivate the acquaintance of 
their poorer relatives, the manner of doing 
this admits of no doubt; for to receive them 
as guests without a welcome, is at once a 
breach of justice and of hospitality. The 
welcome then which I would earnestly re- 
commend, is one which sets them perfectly 
at ease as to any fear of intrusion, and which 
does away with all idea that personally they 
are considered as inferiors by the mistress of 
the house ; though at the same time her be- 
havior should be such as to assist them in 
marking out for their safety, in associating 
with others, those delicate distinctions, upon 
the nice observance of which so much of 
their comfort and respectability depends. By 
encouraging them to trust implicitly to her 
candor in expressing her wishes respecting 
them, she may, as the mistress of a house, 
be enabled to become a real friend to a class 
of persons whose claims are perhaps the 
strongest of any upon our sympathy and 
consideration. For let the case be our own 
—let the lapse of time as it passes over our 
family connections leave us alone to struggle 
with a tide of adverse circumstances; while 
those who originally branched off from the 


same root are basking in the sunshine of 
prosperity—let us ask of our own hearts, 
whether we should not sometimes feel it 
hard to be shut out from their indulgences, 
4 and thrust down as it were into a lower 
' grade of society altogether, without any fault 
of our own. 

Nor is it so much the fact itself, as the ac- 
companiments of this fact, which we should 
feel it hard to bear—the willingness of our 
relations to forget us—their cold or forced 
civilities when we claimed their attention, 
compared with the warmth of their emotions 
towards those who were more distinguished 
than ourselves—the situations they might 
point out to us as eligible, but which they 
would almost die rather than occupy—the 
times they would choose for inviting us, 
when no one else was likely to appear—the 
multitude of things reserved for us to do, 
when our health required that we should 
have perfect rest—all which are perfectly nat- 
ural, and might easily occur without any ac- 
companiment of unkind feeling. Yet, these 
are only small items of a vast sum, like grains 
of dust in the long wearisome and humilia- 
ting path, which the poor relation must tread 
in associating with the rich. 

In all such circumstances, how much may 
the facts themselves be ameliorated to the 
sufferer by the kind and cordial treatment of 
the mistress of a family, and especially by 
one whose high sense of justice and generos- 
ity admits of no half welcomes beneath her 
roof! Such a mistress will consider the poor 
relative as peculiarly under her protection, to 
guard from slights, to bring forward as oc- 
casion may invite, to keep back as circum- 
stances may require, and to render comforta- 
ble and. at ease whatever may occur. And 
if in the contemplation of this duty, in addi- 
tion to those already dwelt upon in this chap- 
ter, the English wife should fear that her 
time will be so occupied in thinking of others, 
as to leave none for thinking of herself, she 
_must remember, that by these means she 
will gather around her a strong phalanx of 
friends, whose love and gratitude will leave 
her little to wish for, which it is in their power 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


103 


to supply ; and beyond this, she will find that 
by the same means she has been put in pos- 
session of one of the great secrets of human 
happiness—that of making others happy. 


CHAPTER XIL 
SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


VisitTInc, and receiving visits, being re- 
garded by some married women as among 
the most important avocations of life, it may 
possibly to such individuals imply an igno- 
rance of the claims of society, when I ven- 
ture to hint at the probability of this being 
one of the peculiar temptations against 
which women in general would do wisely to 
be on their guard, especially against acquir- 
ing a habit of visiting, as a means of escape 
from the dullness and monotony of their own 
firesides. 

It needs but little acquaintance with do- 
mestic duty, to know that there must be 
something wrong in the home of that woman 
who is always leaving it; although, on the 
other hand, few persons would recommend 
exclusive confinement to the same narrow 
sphere of thought and action, in which we 
exist athome. Itis good to go out into so- 
ciety sometimes, in order that we may return 
with the greater relish; but a still more ex- 
tensive amount of good is derived from what 
we may learn in mixed society, and some- 
times even from the humblest individuals we 
meet with there. 

It must, however, depend much upon our- 
selves, whether we go out prepared to make 
visiting a wholesome refreshment to the mind, 
or a means of collecting and disseminating 
low ideas with regard to our own affairs, and 
those of our neighbors. When a married 


woman goes out intent upon reckoning the 
cost of the entertainment she partakes of, 
upon comparing her neighbor’s furniture with 
her own, but especially upon depreciating 
the excellence of all which falls under her 
notice, it may safely be said that she would | 


a 


104 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


have been better at home; but when she goes 
out with a desire to extend her kindly feel- 
ings towards her fellow-creatures in general, 
to learn from others, and to impart knowledge 
in return; or, in other words, to do and re- 
ceive good in any way that may open, she 
will seldom have the mortification of return- 
ing home weary and dispirited, or wishing 
she had never gone. 

But pleasant as this kind of refreshment 
may occasionally be, and necessary as it is 
sometimes to mix with others in order to 


have our views enlarged, and our prejudices ' 


rubbed off, the woman who makes it the chief 


business of her life to visit and receive com-- 


pany, will have committed a lamentable mis- 
take by getting married; for this business 
might unquestionably have been carried on 
in her single state with as much enjoyment 
to herself, and with far less injury to the hap- 
piness of others. Whatever is done by a 
married woman in the way of duty, must 
have reference to others, and more especially 
to those with whom she is most intimately 
connected; how then can it be promoting 
their interests, or making their welfare the 
chief object of desire, for her to be bestowing 
her time, her intelligence—nay, all that is 
pleasing in her manners, and interesting in 
her character, upon comparative strangers ; 
while her lassitude, weariness, and exhaus- 
tion, the natural effects of too much excite- 
ment, are brought home to her own family, 
and unsparingly indulged before them. 
There are probably few English wives who 
would really wish to enter at once upon so 
unnatural a way of living; but there are un- 
fortunately too many, who from want of firm- 


| ness to resist temptation, as well as prudence 


and discernment to foresee what consequen- 
ees must inevitably follow certain acts, are 


| drawn into that vortex of dissipation appa- 


rently against their will, and, if one could re- 
ally’ believe their protestations, still more 
decidedly against their inclinations. 

There is no more curious phenomenon, 
presented by human life, than that of innu- 
merable multitudes of persons doing every 
day, towards each other, with every demon- 


stration of delight, what one half at least of 


the same individuals declare themselves to 


be doing with the utmost unwillingness, and 


even with dislike. In nothing is this more 
striking than in the ceremony of making 
morning calls. The devices which are prac- 
tised to escape from callers, on the one hand, 
and to call upon persons who are not at 
home, on the other, might put to shame the 


warmest advocate for keeping up these forms 
_of polished life. 
with one stout heart, determine to speak the 


For let the whole nation, as 


truth, and say exactly what degree of willing- 
ness is really felt to go out and make these 
calls, or to stay at home and receive them, 
and let the willingness thus avowed, be made 
the rule of their future conduct, what an im- 
mense amount of precious time would thus 
be rescued from worse than waste ! 

Nor is it the absolute calls themselves, 
which constitute the whole objection to the 
practice as it is now carried on, for every 
mistress of a family addicted to this practice, 
knows that there are two or three good 
hours—nay, actually the very best of every 
day, which she can never cal! her own, and 
which she consequently makes no attempt to 
spend in any rational or useful manner. If 
any thing within the sphere of her duties has 
really to be done, it must be hurried through 
between, perhaps, a late breakfast, and the 
arrival of those few early callers, who come 
on business, or who really wish to find the 
lady of the house at home. When these are 


gone, the first part of the farce commences, 


and if the after scenes could be made to vary 
so as to develop what was interesting or 
new, there would perhaps be less objection 
to the whole. But, unfortunately, having gone 
through one set of observations, one series of 
little surprises at the intelligence of the day, 
one succession of animated smiles, and ex- 
pressions of profound interest, no sooner is 
another guest announced, than the lady of 
the house has to be just as much astonished 
at the news, and just as much startled at 
each item of intelligence, as if she had never 
heard it before—just as much pleased to re- 
ceive the twentieth caller as the first, and al- 


say 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


though in all probability no single truth has 
been told her with which she was not all the 
while acquainted, no new idea developed, 
and no feeling, except weariness, excited, she 
has to remain until the last as fascinating, 
vivacious, and apparently delighted, as she 
was at first. 

Now if this is not hard labor, I am igno- 
rant what labor is. If this is not waste of 
time, Iam ignorant what is its use. If this 
is not a weariness and degradation to the 
spirit, 1am ignorant on that point’too. Al- 
lowing, however, that calls are necessary, a 
fact I do not pretend to dispute, allowing also 
that some particular portion of each day 
should be appropriated to that purpose, what 
harm, I would ask, would result to society in 
general, from having that time compressed 
into the space of one hour each day. It is 
true that by this means many callers would 
probably have to be introduced at the same 
time, but here would be the great advantage, 
that the same common-place remarks would 
do for all at once, the same little starts of as- 
tonishment, the same expression of interest 
lighting up the face, and beyond this, the 
same delighted welcome for the many, em- 
bodied in one, might have a better chance of 
being really cordial and sincere. In addition 
to these advantages, every married woman 
should have the privilege of fixing her own 
hour as a generally understood thing, so that 
her household arrangements might be made 
accordingly ; and time comparatively secure 
would thus be left for pursuing any more im- 
portant avocations without fear of interrup- 
tion. 

I now appeal to the wives of England, 
whether the carrying out of such a plan 
would not be felt as a general relief; more 
especially since it need only be adopted by 


| those who consider time too precious a gift 


to be spent in a sort of trifling which seems 
neither to do good, nor to give satisfaction ; 
while all who prefer the present system, 
would enjoy the gratification of spending 
their whole mornings either in making or 
receiving calls. The only difference to them 


| would be, that they could no longer with any 


105 


justice complain of the system as irksome or 
annoying. 

In such observations I would be under- 
stood to refer to those calls of ceremony, 
habit, or fancied necessity, which are univer- 
sally complained of behind the scenes. Visits 
of friendship are of a totally different order, 
and might be arranged for accordingly. But 
whatever plans may be proposed, the great 
evil to be avoided is, a universal determina- 
tion to appear pleased with what is as uni- 
versally complained of as a waste of time, 
and a tax upon patience and sincerity ; for 
that can never be a right state of things, 
where a general grievance is borne with 
under the pretence of its being a pleasure. 
There are many grievances which must be 
borne with, and which it is consequently de- 
sirable to make the best of; and there are 
others which fall heavily upon individuals, 
and yet conduce to the general good; but 
that a burden felt by all, and sincerely de- 
plored by the majority of those who bear it, 
should come not only to be submitted to, but 
apparently rejoiced in, is a phenomenon 
which exhibits so striking an instance of the 
self-mastery of woman, that one cannot suf- 
ficiently regret this exercise of her magna- 
nimity not being devoted to a nobler cause. 

The art of receiving guests agreeably, ar- 
ranging them judiciously, and treating them 


so that every one shall feel perfectly at ease, | 


is of more importance to the mistress of a 
house, than the display of her richest jewels, 
or her most studied accomplishments. In- 


deed, there is always this fact to be borne in | 


mind with regard to society in general, that 
nothing which is merely an embellishment to 
ourselves, can, as regards its real value, bear 
the slightest proportion to that which affords 
gratification to others. The mistress of a 
house would do little for the enjoyment of 
her guests by being the most splendidly 
dressed, or even the most striking and dis- 
tinguished person in her own drawing-room. 
The probability is that half of them would go 
away secretly, if not openly, affronted. Her 
proper duty is to allow them an opportunity 
of shining, if they can; and in pursuance of 


| 


a RE RY 


106 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


this subject, she will endeavor to make way 


for the distinguished, as well as to bring for- 


ward the retiring. But more especially it is 
her part to be unobtrusively watchful of in- 


dividual comfort, attentive to every wish, | 


moving about from one to another without 
bustle or officiousness, and above all things 
taking care that the most insignificant are 
not neglected. She must do all this too with 
a perfect knowledge of what is in human na- 
ture, so as not to offend while endeavoring 
to please; and with a perfect adaptation of 
herself to the different characters of her 
guests, whose enjoyment for the evening 
must be in a great measure at her disposal. 
Thus the mistress of a house may attain the 
desirable object of having her visitors all 
pleased and satisfied, without any of them 
being aware how much of their gratification 
they owe to her; for I am supposing her one 
of those unselfish women, who, when they go 
into company, are intent only upon the hap- 
piness of those around them, and who conse- 
quently escape the disappointment of having 
failed in their own persons to be either courted 
or admired. 

But there is a far different. manner of visit- 
ing and receiving visits from this—and I had 
almost said, would that there were no other 
with which wehad any thing to do! I mean 
where one or more friends—real friends, are 
invited by the mistress of a house to be for a 
short time the companions of her fireside en- 
joyments, and, as members of the same fam- 
ily, to partake in whatever may constitute its 
amusements or its privileges. Here then we 
find an appropriate and ample field for the full 
development of those qualifications, whether 
natural or acquired, which are combined in 
an agreeable companion ; for here are happi- 
ly united, freedom for the exercise of truth, 
time for narrative, opportunity for confidence, 
resource for intellect, occasion for pleasantry, 
recollections shared together, hopes mutually 
anticipated, and indeed any thing which an 
affectionate heart, and an enlightened under- 
standing, can require for enjoyment. 

What a luxury too it is for a married 
woman to feel such perfect identity with her 


husband in all he is, and in all he possesses, 
that her home, her books, her garden, seem |! 


to be her very own to place at the disposal 


of her friend; but greater than all, is the 
luxury of gathering into her bosom that ful- 
ness of delight, derived from ten thousand 
sources, yet all embodied in the simple feel- 
ing, that she has a home to offer. There is 
nothing in the joy of girlhood equal to this; 
and say what people will about marriage |! 
being the grave of friendship, I cannot think 
the wife is the person most to blame where it 
is so. Perhaps there is no blame at all, for I | 
should rather think the falling off of female | 
friends might, in a great measure, be attrib- 
uted to a natural shrinking, on the side of the 
unmarried party, from admitting, as she sup- 
poses he must be, a man, and perhaps a 
stranger, into her confidence. There are, 
however, so very few men who care any || 
thing at all about such confidence, who feel | 
any curiosity to know what female friendship’ 
is composed of, or who even listen when its 
details are laid before them, that such an ob- | 
jection need scarcely be allowed to interfere 
with the freedom of intercourse, which con- 
stitutes one of the great privileges of friend- 
ship, and without which it must be little bet- 
ter than a name. 

Beyond this, too, there may be a little fault 
on the part of the unmarried friend, in at- 
taching ideas of what is interesting, exclu- 
sively to those unfamiliar scenes, and images 
of impossible perfection, which occupy the 
mind of the romantic, or the ‘highly imagina- 
tive, to the exclusion of what is real, practi- | 
cal, and true. Thus the wife who really |} 
does her duty, isnot unfrequently condemned | 
by her female friends, as being a common- || 
place, and perhaps a vulgar, or degenerate || 
being. But could they really know what | 
deep and thrilling interests are to her in- || 
volved in this her duty, what high and burn- || 
ing zeal—what quenchless ardor—what en- || 
thusiasm, what feeling, are expended upon || 
the avocations of each day, marked as they 
must be, by the ebb and flow of affection’s 
ceaseless tide; could they see all this, how 
would they start astonished at their own mis- 


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take, in having supposed that the mere ma- 
| terial elements upon which the duties of a 
wife were exercised, were in_ themselves 
what constituted the reality of all the interest 
which she had in life. No; beyond these 
visible signs which tell of the observance or 
neglect of duty, she has a life—a soul—a 
spiritual existence, which comprises every 
thing between the wide extremes of happi- 
ness and wo; and if her early associates 
will not believe it, if they will withdraw them- 
selves, and think, and say, that she is 
changed, it is because she regards all the in- 
tense and profound realities of the life she 
now leads, as too sacred to be unveiled even 
before the eye of friendship. 

But she is not changed: a warm, true- 
hearted woman cannot change to those she 
| has loved in early life, simply because her 
name, her home, and the occupations which 
fill up her time, are not the same. Affection 
in such a heart can never die; where it has 
once fixed, it will retain its hold; and if by 
force it should be shaken off, it will be like 
wrenching away a portion of the heart itself: 
If new ties are formed, it does not follow 
| that the old ones shall be broken. They 
| rather grow into the soul from having been 
‘| interwoven with its earliest affections, and 
| if they are less observable in after life, it is 
only because they lie the deepest, and are 
consequently the most concealed. 

But to return to the subject of duty; in 
| the act of entertaining her familiar friends, 
and particularly those who are younger than 
herself, the married woman may possibly sup- 
pose that she enjoys only a pleasant recrea- 
tion, by which the more serious business of 
| life may be diversified with social amusement. 
But however much this might have been the 
case in her single state, it is so no longer; for 
as the mistress of a house, and the head ofa 
| family, she holds a relation to her young 
| friends which is necessarily invested with a 


| authority she is as a Christian woman ac- 
| countable. Even if no attempt is made to 
use her influence, so as to give to the minds 
| around her a bias either one way or another, 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


| her young friends as a fireside companion, 


| degree of authority, and for the use of this. 


some bias will necessarily be given by the 
general character of her establishment, and 
the tone of feeling by which her domestic and 
social affairs are regulated. Besides which, 
her young friends will naturally look to her 
to see what plans she wishes to adopt, and 
what principles it is her object to carry out, 
and their conduct will be regulated accord- | 
ingly ; for whatever the degree of familiarity | 
may be which exists between them, the rules | 
which she has adopted for the government || 
of her household, they will feel it an obliga- | 
tion strictly to observe. 

The mistress of a house too, will have an 
influence beyond this, and one which is rare- | 
ly enjoyed through any other medium of | 
communication ; for if she be one who has 
cultivated and embellished her own mind, 
storing up for the benefit of others all those 
means of being agreeable which no woman | 
ought to neglect, she will be the delight of || 


and as such will share in all their moments 
of unrestrained vivacity, and unlimited free- 
dom. | 

The authority of teachers, and unfortu- | 
nately sometimes that of parents too, extends 
only to those hours of discipline which are 
spent immediately under their care. Could 
any system of scholastic instruction be made 
to regulate without spoiling the sports of chil- 
dren, or could any means of influence be 
made to operate upon their play, what an 
amount of additional good might be effected 
in the formation of individual character ! For 
how often is it found. that the child who is 
taught, questioned, and examined by his mas- 
ters, who answers freely and fluently on the 
points referred to, and whois ready and prompt 
asif his whole mind was there, is in reality but 
an actor performing his part in that august 
presence, from which, the moment he is dis- 
missed, his real character bursts forth in the 
play-ground, to be developed in an entire be- | 
ing as opposite to that which stood before the 
desk, as if they held no relation to each other! 
How often too, do we find that persons who 
appear staid and demure onserious occasions, 
are most objectionable companions in their 


ea a ee eee ere 


| 108 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


mirth ; while, on the other hand, those whose 
mirth is innocent and pure, and guiltles sof 
| all taint from selfish or malignant feeling, 
may safely be trusted when they are in earn- 
est. 
But the mistress of a family in the midst of 
her young friends enjoys the high privilege of 
giving a right tone to their enjoyments, and 
chastening the spirit of their mirth. ‘That is, 
if she has so cultivated her own understand- 
ing as to know what belongs to nature, and 
to be able to adapt herself to it; for without 
this power, she must ever be a stranger to the 
inner and more potent workings of the human 
heart. But if she has studied those accom- 
plishments which are particularly attractive 
to youth, and those more important qualifi- 
cations of mind and intellect which give su- 
periority as well as interest wherever they are 
found, she will be able to render the moments 
spent benéath her roof the most privileged 
perhaps of a whole lifetime—moments in 
which good impressions were rendered in- 
delible as being accompanied by the most de- 
lightful associations—moments retained with- 
in the richest treasury of memory, to be made 
the pattern of the choicest intercourse, and 
the highest intellectual communion through 
other chains of association, extending on- 
| wards from family to family, and from heart 

; to heart, into a never-ending future. 

| We see here the consequences which I 
have perhaps sufficiently dwelt upon, of hav- 
ing cultivated the art of being agreeable, not 

| to shine in general society, as is too frequent- 
ly the case; not to establish any personal 
. || claim to admiration, merely to render striking 
and brilliant the intellectual companionship of 
a single hour, but to make the fireside circle 
a centre of attraction to which the young may 
love to resort; to render home the chosen 
spot of earth, where all who are admitted 
within its social fellowship may delight to 
dwell, where hopes and joys may be shar- 
ed together, and where all the thoughts most 
cherished and enjoyed, are such as tend to- 


ence. 
Without having studied the cultivation of 


wards a happier and holier state of exist-. 


the mind, or the embellishment of the char- 
acter in general, how can the mistress of a 
family throw around the scenes of home- 
enjoyments this intellectual and spiritual 
charm? How can she keep away the cloud 
of dulness, the monotony of common-place, 
the shadow of discontent, of which young 
persons so often complain when visiting their 
married friends? and how, when her inter- 
course with them is marked by no lively or 
impressive character, can she expect that 
her influence over them will extend to what 
is lasting or good? It is impossible ; because 
itis not in the nature of the human heart to 
be thus influenced, without being thus im- 
pressed. | 

To the married woman, then, itis a serious 
thing to have lost, by indolence or neglect, 
those golden opportunities of being useful to 
society, which her position naturally places 
within her reach. For it is not so much our 
private precepts which have weight, and per- 
haps still less our public ones, so much as the 
influence of individual character upon a sur- 
rounding circle, and through that circle upon 
the world at large. 

The English wife should, therefore, regard 
her position as a central one, and remember 
that from her, as the head of a family, and the 
mistress of a household, branch off in every 
direction trains of thought, and tones of feel- 
ing, operating upon those more immediately 
around her, but by no means ceasing there ; 
for each of her domestics, each of her rela- 


tives, and each of her familiar friends, will in | 


their turn become the centre of another circle, 
from which will radiate good or evil influ- 
ence, extending onwards, in the same man- 
ner, to the end of all things—to the disrup- 
tion of all earthly ties, and the union of the 
great family of heaven, where sweet and 
harmonious notes of her own teaching may 
possibly be numbered with the songs of the 
blessed forever and forever. 

Is it then a subject merely to be glanced 
over with a careless wish that we could be 
useful to our fellow-creatures?—that we 
could leave on the minds of those who will 
remember us when we are dead, some last- 


SS a aE SSS ESSE Sas 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


ing impress worthy of their high destiny and 
ours? All may do this. Of that we are 
convinced. But are we equally or suffi- 
ciently convinced that some impress will, 
and must be left, whether we have desired it 
or not? And what if it should be such as to 
mark them out for wrath in the great day of 
wrath! And if that too should have spread, 
as the other might have done, on—on—from 
one circle and one generation to another— 
from one family, one community, one people, 
one country, widening on every hand until 
the world itself should suffer from the uni- 
versal taint! 

The carrying out of such a thought to its 
full extent is too tremendous, and yet we 
know of no natural limits by which influence 
either good or evil can be confined or ar- 
rested in its progress towards eternity. We 
can only ask with penitence and prayer that 
what we have hitherto exercised amiss may 
be overruled for good, and that what we have 
yet to exercise, may be directed by Him who 
alone can give the power to use it for his 
glory. 

There are many cases of practical duty, in 
which it seems as if the language of Scripture 
had, by general consent, been explained away 
as referring to times and circumstances in 
which we have no part. In none is this 
more striking than as regards hospitality, 
few of us considering ourselves at all the 
more required from any thing we meet with 
there, when we prepare a feast, to call in the 
poor or the friendless to partake. 
pretending to be wiser than others, by apply- 
ing these and similar injunctions more liter- 
ally than they appear to be generally under- 
stood, it seems to me.a question of deep im- 


portance to a serious mind, whether we are 


not many of us required to go much further 
than we do in extending our hospitality to 


| those who, according to the usages of the 


world, may appear to have but little claim 
upon such attentions. 

There is an extensive class of persons, 
who, if we would do to them as we would 
that others should do to us under similar cir- 
cumstances, instead of being objects of gene- 


Without, 


109 


ral neglect, would become objects of our 
especial kindness in this respect. I mean 
those who are separated from their own 
home-connections by becoming assistants in 
business, or otherwise attached to families in 
which they are comparatively strangers. 

It cannot be denied that a system of hospi- 
tality thus carried out towards persons so 
circumstanced, or according to the Scripture 
rule of inviting those who cannot ask us in 
return, would require the exercise of consid- 
erable self-denial as well as benevolence ; 
and more especially so with those whose 
homes are the centre and the source of the 
greatest happiness they enjoy ; for it is per- 
haps the only disadvantage accompanying 


an excess of this home-feeling, that the more | 


perfect is the satisfaction with which we 
gather into the domestic circle, the less wil- 
lingness we feel that a stranger should “ in- 
termeddle with its joys.” 

Thus we sometimes find a sort of house- 
hold exclusiveness, and a too great concen- 
tration of domestic satisfaction, prevailing al- 
most to the extent of selfishness, where such 
feelings are indulged without the restraint of 
judgment or of principle. ‘T'o persons in- 
fected with this home-mania, their own 
houses, their own grounds, their own habits, 
and their own modes of thinking and living 
are always the very best imaginable, and 
such as bear no comparison with those of 
any other family. So much is this the case, 
that they seem almost to be a law unto them- 
selves ; while above every thing they reject 
the idea of being improved by adopting the 
views and the practices of others. Itis needless 
to say that such persons have little weight to 
throw into the scale ef social influence either 
on the side of good or evil, for the absurdi- 
ties they exhibit to the world effectually pre- 
vent their doing any considerable amount of 
harm beyond what is negative. 

But there are degrees of this evil against 
which we may not all be sufficiently on our 
guard, because we may be mistaking it for 
good; yet when it stands in the way of our 
practising the duty of hospitality, we shou'd 
ask ourselves seriously whether that home 


‘which ought to be the scene of our greatest 
earthly happiness is not in reality the temple 
of our worship. A higher cultivation of the 
feelings of Kindness and benevolence towards 
others, a deeper sympathy for their trials and 
sufferings, a more earnest solicitude for their 
welfare, and a greater desire to impart the 
blessings we enjoy, would, I am persuaded, 
tend very much to reconcile us to any tem- 
porary interruption of our domestic enjoy- 
ments which might be occasioned by the 
presence of astranger, even should his habits 
and modes of thinking be the most dissimilar 
to our own. And if any thing could be done 
by this means to improve the minds and mor- 
als of that important class of society who 
will constitute the next generation of men of 
business—men who will give the weight of 
extensive influence either to the side of good, 
or evil, that strong feeling of household ex- 
clusiveness, which is but a refined and ex- 
tended selfishness, ought certainly in some 
measure to give way. 

We complain of the habits of young men, 
and with some cause, yet when we recollect 
of what materials human nature is composed, 
and compare these with the situation of 
young men generally; but more especially 
when we think of the thousand inviting 
avenues to sin which are opened to their 
choice, the cordiality with which they are 
met by evil associates, and invited to every 
rendezvous of vice; and when*we compare 
this with the very little cordiality they meet 
with on the opposite side; the scanty wel- 
comes, the cold notice, and the treatment 
equally distant and disrespectful, we surely 
must expect them to be more than human 
wholly to withstand the one, and to bind them- 
selves over with lasting and warm attach- 
ment to the other. 

Young men, too, are often diffident of their 
own attractions in polished society, and some. 
times not without considerable reason, more 
especially when they find themselves treated 
in respectable company with every demon- 
stration of contempt. Here, then, we must 
also remember that vice is not delicate in her 
| distinctions. In her wide halls of revelry, 


——— 


“THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. — 


the ignorant, the mean, and the unlettered 
find a welcome. Sheslights them not for 
want of polished manners. She heeds nei- 
ther personal inferiority, nor unfashionable 
attire. All—all are welcome, from the raw 
stripling, to the friendless stranger, who finds 
not in the wide world another or a safer home. 

In contemplating this view of the subject, 
I have often thought, what an amount of 
good might be effected, if a little more attrac- 
tion were held out by Christians in general, 
towards persons of this class. We ought 
seriously to question, too, whether we are 
really doing them justice—whether we are 
not resting too well satisfied in merely urging 
upon them the necessity of attention to pub- 
lic worship, when a few more welcomes into 
Christian families might possibly do more for 
their real good, than many sermons without 
participation in the real comforts of any re-_ 
spectable home. 

Nor is it the mere invitation of such per- 
sons at stated times, which can effect the 
good so much required, the mere bestowment 
of a dinner, or the mere permission to come 
on Sundays and be present during the hours 
of family devotion. Good as this unquestion- 
ably is, there is something else required; 
and this something should be supplied by the 
mistress of the house; for, I repeat, that to 
woman all the common usages of kindness 
are so easy and familiar, as to leave her little 
excuse for neglecting the claims of hospital- 
ity, which constitute so essential a part of 
social duty. There is much kind feeling 
conveyed even by so slight an act as a cor- | 
dial shake of the hand, but especially by those 
apparently slight observations upon personal 
affairs, which evince an interest in the situa- 
tion and circumstances of a guest, and which 
often lead to a freedom of communication 
which, as a means of influence, may be turned 
to the happiest account. 

In all associations in which the feelings and 
affections are concerned, it must never be 
forgotten, that the manner in which.an act of | 
benevolence is done, is often of far greater 
importance than the act itself—That it is 
possible to be kind in an unkind manner; to 


give a great deal away, and yet be most un- 
generous. This truth we have many of us, 
at some time or other of our lives, had to feel 
perhaps too keenly for our peace. Yet it is 
possible the thought of what such kindness 
cost us, may prove a wholesome one in its 
effect upon our own conduct towards others, 
by teaching us how to soothe, where through 
ignorance we might have wounded; how to 
attract, where we might have repelled; and 
| consequently how to do good, where we 
might inadvertently have done evil. 

‘But it is useless to think of the manner, 
| until we have seen the act itself to be a duty ; 
and I would here appeal to the wives of 
England, as they value the good of their 
country, and the good of their sons and 
brothers—as they value youth in gene- 
| ral, and regard it as the season for remem- 
bering our Creator, and the Giver of all our 
blessings—as they would cherish its buoyant 
hopes, strengthen its high capabilities, and 
/ lay an imperishable foundation of good, 
where evil must otherwise enter and occupy 
the vacant room—as they value all these 
considerations, I would urge them not to 
confine their social kindness merely to those 
who can requite them after their own man- 
ner; but to extend it to those who, though 
comparatively strangers, share in the affec- 
tions and the feelings of a common nature, 
and who are now undergoing the formation 
of their characters for time and for eternity. 

“ Not following lower things,”—was a no- 
ble motto adopted by a noble queen,* when 
| she chose as emblematical of the course she 
intended to pursue, a marigold turning to 
| the sun. Although nothing could be more at 
variance with the duties of a wife, and 
especially one of that class of society to 
which this work more especially applies, than 
| to be aspiring after any selfish or personal 
-agegrandizement as regards mere sublunary 
| things; there is an ambition, if I may call it 
such, which ought to fill the heart, and rouse 
the energies of every Christian woman who 
stands at the head of a household, whatever 


* Marguarite of Valois, sister of Francis I., and 
Queen of Navarre. 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


111 


her position may be with regard to outward 
circumstances. I refer to that aspiration af- 
ter higher and holier things, which lifts the 
soul out of its grovelling anxieties and world- 
ly cares, and directs its hopes unchangeably 
towards the world which is eternal. 

It is not consistent with the aim of the 
writer in such a work as this, to enter fully 
upon the subject of that change of heart 
which alone can qualify for forming any just 
or proper estimate of what belongs to a prep- 
aration for the heavenly state. Had such 
been my intention, I would not have left the 
consideration of so momentous and sublime 
a theme, to the last few pages of this work. 
But leaving this subject, in its vastness and 
its depth—its absorbing interests, and its 
solemn truths, to writers of a higher anda 
weightier character, I would still indulge a 
hope that what has here been said may in 
some degree assist towards a more full and 
satisfactory exemplification of the Christian 
character. For even where religion is felt 
and owned to be the one thing needful, and 
where it is adopted as the principle and the 
rule of life, those familiar avocations which 
occupy the attention of every day are not 
always conducted in the spirit which ought 
to regulate the Christian’s life. Some good 
persons err on these points from ignorance: 
some from want of thought, and many from 
not regarding them as essential to religion ; 
and thus the standard of excellence is low- 
ered, and we come to be “satisfied with infe- 


rior things.” 

It would as ill become me, as it would be 
contrary to my feelings, to speak in an un- 
kind or censorious spirit of those, who with 
good intentions, and while making great en- 
deavors, fall short in little things; but I am 
convinced that along with this deficiency, 
there is, to a certain extent, a tendency to 
aim at what is low, sufficient of itself to pre- 
vent the attainment of what is great. The 
more circumscribed our influence, the less 
this tendency is seen and felt; but when we 
take the direction of a household, and con- 
sequently have much to do with the forma- 
tion of the characters around us, this tenden- 


sneer $$ 


| Ea TS SS RSE SI EF 


, 


| 


1ieo 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


| cy to grovel tells to an amazing and incalcu- 


lable extent. 
It is far from my wish to write on this sub- 


| ject as one who has neither knowledge nor 


feeling of what wives in general have to 
struggle with, in the way of depressing or 
degrading circumstances. I know that the 
occupations of a household, by reminding us 
perpetually of what is material, have a strong 
tendency to occupy the mind with that alone. 
I know that under wasted health, or weari- 
ness, or disappointment, to be urged to strug- 
gle after what is high, sounds like a mockery 
to the human heart. And I know too that 
there are trials in the lot of woman, almost 
sufficient of themselves to quench the very 
life within her soul, and to extinguish there 
the power to hope for any thing before the 
grave. I know that the spirit may be har- 
assed—wounded—broken ; but I am yet to 
learn, that under any circumstances we are 
justified in giving all things up. 

I should rather reason thus—that having 
striven after excellence in every department, 
we have so multiplied our resources, that 
something always must be left; so that if 
nothing in the shape of positive happiness 
could ever reach us more, we should still 
be capable of adding to the happiness of 
others. 

But the most powerful and widely prevail- 
ing cause of that moral and _ intellectual 
degradation—that downward tendency of 
the mind, and that grovelling of the spirit 
among material things, which is so much to 
be lamented over in the wives of the present 
day, arises clearly and unquestionably out of 
the false estimate so universally formed of 
what is most to be desired—nay, of what is 
absolutely essential to existence. It is this 
vain and fruitless ambition with regard to 
worldly things, in which we are all more or 
less engaged, that wears down our energies, 
and wearies out our hopes. It is the disap- 
pointment, the perplexity, the harass of this 
long struggle, which leaves us so spiritless 
and worn. It is the emptiness of our suc- 
cess when the highest worldly wish has been 
attained, which makes us, in the midst of 


all our coveted possessions, so miserably 
poor. | 

It is difficult to speak strongly on these 
subjects, yet with that kindness and respect 
which I feel that my country women deserve, 
and deserve especially from me. But when 
I assert again that it is not intention which 1s 
in fault, so much as a certain set of mistaken 
views which more or less affect us all, I 
would fondly hope I might obtain their for- 
giveness for being more than commonly earn- 
est in so important a cause. _In this hope I 
appeal to their own hearts, whether the daily 
conflict they are many of them enduring is 
not in reality after that which “ perisheth in 
the using ;” whether it ever brings them a 
reward at all commensurate with what it 
costs ; and whether it is not in itself a weari- 
ness to the very soul. I appeal to society at 
large, whether the importance we many of 
us attach to appearing well before the world, 
in other words, to dressing and living in a 
certain style, has not irritated more tempers, 
destroyed more peace, occasioned more dis- 
putes, broken more spirits, crossed more love, 
hindered more improvement, and caused 
more spiritual declension, than any other 
single cause which could be named. And 
what has it done to throw into the opposite 


scale? Encouraged one kind of manufactory | 


to the disadvantage of another, changed our 
fashions, excited our vanity, furnished our 
houses, decked our persons—and what then ? 
Sent us forth into society envied and envying 
one another, and disseminating wherever we 
might go, low thoughts, disparaging allusions, 
and uncharitable feelings, all arising out of the 


| very rivalry and competition of which this 


fruitless ambition was the source. 

Let us look at one channel only among the 
many thousands through which it operates to 
the destruction of human happiness, and the 
disunion of natural ties. It is no poet’s fable, 


and I speak it reverently, believing what I 
speak, when I say, that the love which grows 
up between two young people who expect to 
spend their lives together, is of every earthly 
feeling that which most endears to us all 
which is most excellent in itself, most beauti- 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


ful in the creation, and most beneficent in the 
dispensaticns of an all-wise and eternal God. 
Who then would quench this feeling, or 
lower its exercise, or make it a mere slave 


to wait upon the customs of the world? The 


voice of humanity exclaims against so base, 
so foolish a perversion of our nature. Youth 
exclaims against it, as well it may. Society 
—the world exclaims. The world? No, 
that can never be. It is the world whose 
unrelenting voice demands this sacrifice— 
the world before whose artificial glare the 
star of love must hide its purer ray. 

It is because the world is the great altar 
upon which the hearts of multitudes are laid, 
that the shrine of domestic happiness so often 
is profaned by broken vows—vows broken in 
the spirit, and therefore the mere symbols of 
a love, without its sweetness or its life. It is 
because the spirit of the world demands that 
we should love and serve the mammon of 
unrighteousness, that hearts are bought and 
sold, and youth is wedded to old age, and 
every mockery of feeling which imagination 
can conceive, is perpetrated under the grave 
name of prudence. I have myself advocated 
prudence, and I have urged the necessity of 
waiting for what are popularly considered as 
sufficient means. Yet this has been chiefly 
in conformity with the universal system we 
acknowledge, of “regarding lower things.” 
I did not, and I never shall, believe the sys- 
tem is a right one in itself; but until our 
views are more enlightened, and our princi- 
ples are strong enough to support us in the 
effort, it would be worse than folly to advise 
that individuals here- and there should 
overstep the bounds of prudence as they 
are now laid down, not knowing what 
they did. 

The new order of things which I would 
advocate must be a general one, brought 
about by simultaneous views, and feelings, 
and determinations. There will then be no 


’ world to fear, for we shall constitute ourselves 


a world, in which lower things will no longer 
be regarded, except as such—a world in 
which the warmest feelings of the heart will 


8 


113 


parison, in value, with the cold formalities of 
artificial life—a world in which what we 
wear, and what we use, shall no longer be 
esteemed as more important than what we 
do—a world in which people shall be judged 
of by what they are, and not by what they 
possess—a world in which what is costly and 
brilliant in ornament, shall give place to that 
which is excellent in character, and sterling 
in value. 

And when shall this bright epoch arrive ?— 
this dawning of better hopes—this day of 
promise for our country, and our homes? It 
will arrive when the wives of England shall 
hold themselves above their circumstances; || 
and, estimating that most highly which is 
really high, shall understand how principle is 
the basis of all good ; and having subjected 
these principles to the word of God, and tried 
them by the only test which is safe and true, 
they may then adorn the superstructure by 
all which the purest taste and the most 
chastened feeling can suggest. 

In adopting the motto of one of the most 
amiable and accomplished of female sover- 
eigns, we must not forget that hers was the 
pursuit of excellence of almost every kind; 
in her studies, her attainments, and in all 
those graces of mind and person which adorn 
a court. Nor doIsee why the raising of our |, 
highest admiration to that which is highest 
in itself, should in any respect interfere with 
our desire after excellence in general. 

It is a melancholy thought, when marriage 
has united the destiny of two human beings 
for this life at least, that one of them should 
grow indifferent to those qualities of mind 
and person which formed the chief attraction 
to the other. It is a melancholy thought, that 
when a wife has taken upon herself the du- 
ties which belong to the mistress of a family, 
she should be willing to lose those charms 
which constitute the loveliness of woman. It 
is a melancholy thought, that because she has 
become a useful, she must cease to be an in- 
tellectual, being. But it cannot—it must not 
be. The very thought is one of treason 
against the love and the happiness of mar- 


no longer be considered as bearing any com. | ried life; for what is there among all the em- | 


114 


bellishments of female character, which this 
love cannot legitimately appropriate, and this 
happiness enhance and improve? 

In no other situation in life can woman find 
so appropriate a sphere for the exercise of 
every grace, and the display of every charm, 
as in the centre of her home-enjoyments ; yet 
here, how often do we find that she permits 
all the poetry of her mind to be extinguished, 
and after that the beautiful too often fades 
away. Life may remain the same to her in 
all its tangible realities; but as the sunshine 


_ passes from the landscape, so the light which 
gives freshness and vividness to every object, 


| 
| 


is gone forever. 

It is said she has actual and pressing cares, 
which absorb her attention, to the exclusion 
of other, and especially of higher, thoughts. 
But here again is her mistake. [t is not in 
woman’s nature to be degraded or brought 
down by care, provided only the objects of 
her solicitude are worthy in themselves, or 
such as call forth feelings worthy of being 
indulged. ‘The care—ihe love—the brooding 
tenderness of a fond mother or a faithful 


_ wife—when, I would ask, was woman found 
_ the worse for these ? 


No. It is the element 
in which she lives, to care for those she loves. 


It is in this element that all her virtues rise 
| and shine; while her whole character as- 
_sumes a higher and more spiritual excel- 


lence. We talk of altered circumstances, and 


_ personal privations, but we libel the true heart 


of woman when we think it cannot stand the 
shock of such extremes as these. No, these 
are not the foes she fears; and it is an insult 
to her understanding, when society persuades 
her that she does fear them. Within her 
heart of hearts she has a nobler conviction, 
that her husband’s happiness, and her own 
integrity and truth, are more to her than all 
the riches in the world. Why then, with 
these convictions, and with that strong capa- 
bility which constitutes her dower, of rising 
above the tide of circumstance, and living 
apart from worldly things in the higher world 
of her affections—why will woman stoop to 
be the slave of habit, of custom, and most of 
all, of fashion, until her vanity and self-indul- 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


gence become the bane of man’s existence, 
and her own? 

And is it well that men, whose daily avo- 
cations necessarily call into service, as one 
of their great principles of action, a worldly 
and a selfish spirit—is it right that they should 
be urged, nay, goaded on, in the perpetual 
race of personal and family aggrandizement, 
by those who profess to love them, and who, 
consequently, ought to seek their ultimate and 
real good? May we not rather leave to them 
the whole adjustment of these worldly mat- 
ters? It is their business, and their duty, to 
find a place among their fellow-men, to es- 
tablish a footing in society, and to maintain it 
by all just and honorable means. This is no 
care of woman’s. Her appropriate part is to 
adorn that station wherever it may be, by a 
contented mind, an enlightened intellect, a 
chastened spirit, and an exemplary life. 

I have dwelt much upon the influence of 
woman in social and domestic life, and in her 
married state she will find that influence ex- 
tending almost on every hand. What, then, 
will be her situation, without the aid of per- 
sonal religion, to give a right direction to its 
operations upon other minds? But what 
will be her situation altogether without this 
aid? 

The thought is too appalling. 

“ A boat sent out to sail alone 
At midnight on the moonless sea,”’ 
might bear some comparison to the situation 
of a solitary being trusting herself upon the 
world’s great ocean without this guide; but 
a richly-freighted vessel, crowded with hu- 
man beings, and bearing in its bosom the in- 
terests of as many souls, yet venturing out to 
sea without a pilot, without a compass, with- 
out any hope or means of safety, might with 
more justice be compared to the woman who 
should dare to engage in the deep responsi- 
bilities of married life, without religion to di- 
rect her course. Whatever difficulties may 
be thus encountered, she cannot meet them 
alone. Whatever dangers, others are drawn 


in to share them with her. Whatever storms, 
she braves them only at the peril of the pre- 
cious lives committed to her trust. Whatever 


-rock she strikes upon, it wrecks not her alone, 
but all—all the rich treasury of hopes and in- 
terests which she bore along with her in that 
presumptuous course, and for all these she is 
accountable. I repeat, the thought is too ap- 
palling. Let us turn to scenes of more famil- 
iar occurrence, where there is more satisfac- 
tion, because there is more hope. 

There is a large class of persons, who with- 
out having given up their hearts entirely to 
the influence of personal religion, are wishing 
that they could do so, and intending some 
time or other that they will. On all solemn 
occasions they feel as if they actually would ; 
and never more so perhaps than when they 
enter upon the duties of married life. To 
woman this is so great and important a 
change, that it naturally produces, if any 
thing can, trains of reflection highly favorable 
to an altered and improved state of mind 
altogether ; and if she has ever seriously 
thought of religion, she does so then. Those 
who rest satisfied with good intentions, and 
especially in religious matters, are glad of any 
alteration in their circumstances which they 
think will make it easier to begin; and they 
hail the opening of a new life, as the entrance 
upon one which will be more exemplary 
than the past. Thus it is often with perfect 
sincerity, that the young religious professor 
believes she will set out upon a new career 
when engaging in the duties of a wife. Her 
feelings are much softened, too, by separation 
from her former friends; she fears the diffi- 
culties of her untried path; and thus is alto- 
gether more disposed than ever in her life 
before to do, and to be, what she sees clearly 
to be right. If, under these circumstances, 
she has married a good man, her first temp- 
tation will be to think, for that reason, that 
she must be good herself; if a man who has 
little or no religion, her first trial will be to 
‘find that instead of being helped, as she had 
expected, so smoothlyon her way, she has, 
in addition to her own difficulties, to help 
him and all his household. 

But a more familiar temptation, and a more 
frequent trial than either of these, is one 
which steals by its insidious nature into the 


SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 


_ a re == 


‘T15 


very heart of domestic life; and it works 
the more deceitfully by mixing itself up with 
all that is most reputable and most approved 
in society in general, and not less than others, 
in the society of the good. 

Persons of this description, in all probabili- 
ty, seek the acquaintance of the well-mean- 
ing young wiie, or she seeks theirs; and be- 
ing a sincere and somewhat hopeful charac- 
ter, not having much foundation of her own, 
but easily led on by others, she is induced by 
their companionship to take a higher stand- 
ing in religious matters than she ever did be- 
fore. Encouraged by their kindness, she ad- 
vances step by step, progressing outwardly, 
and gaining confidence as she goes on. All 
this perhaps might be well, for she is still 
sincere so far as her self-knowledge extends; | 
but here again the spirit of the world creeps — 
in. Indeed the question is, whether she has 
not all the while been actuated by the spirit 
of the world, for it is now so reputable to be 
religious, that temptation can assume this 
form as well as any other. 

With this advance in an outward, and, 
perhaps, too visible profession, the cares of 
the young wife increase. The circle of her | 
acquaintance widens. Visits und morning- | 
calls are not to be neglected; and well if they 
are not devoted to that most objectionable of 
all kinds of gossip, which chooses the minis- 
ter and the observances of a religious life, for 
its theme. But in addition to this, the young 
wife listens to the popular and common talk 
about low worldly things. She learns to think 
much of her furniture, much of her dress, 
and much of the manner in which she enter- 
tains her friends. Nay, she is even glad to 
see that all this competition does not appear 
to be discarded from the fashionable world. 
As time passes on, she becomes more and 
more absorbed by the growing cares and 
thickening perplexities of every day; until 
at last it might become a matter of doubt to 
those around her, which in reality occupied 
her thoughts the most, the preparation for a 


party, or the preparation for eternity. 


Need we wonder that such a woman has 
little religious influence? That she fails to ; 


= 


adorn the doctrine of our Saviour, or to com- 
mend the faith which she professes? Need 
we wonder that her husband, her servants, 
society at large, are not made better by her 
conversation and her example? Yet strange 
to say, it is sometimes wondered at that the 
religious conversation of such persons does 
not do good, and they themselves, when they 
have leisure for it, will labor diligently for the 
conversion of the poor. But they forget that 
those around them, and especially the poor, 
are quick-sighted to their inconsistencies, and 
that they know by other evidence than words, 
when the world is really in the heart. 

By this slight picture, far be it from me to 
convey an idea that I could represent the 
really changed in heart; for I know that theirs 
is a foundation which none of these things 
move. I speak of those who have been only 
almost persuaded, and who, on the solemn 
occasion of their marriage, have set out in 
life with serious views and good intentions ; 
yet whatever may be the clearness of these 
views, or the strength of these intentions, I 
believe that a great number of hopeful begin- 
nings have been frustrated by this single root 
of evil, this spirit of the world. I believe also, 
that more spiritual declension among women 


THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 


may be traced to the same cause, than to ail 
the vice and all the infidelity to be met with 
among the openly profane. 

It is then against this single enemy, above 
all others, that married women have to sus- 
tain each other in waging constant and de- 
termined war. I repeat, it is hard, too hard, | 
for any single individual to struggle against 
the tide of popular feeling, more especially 
when religion numbers in her ranks so many 
who divide her claims with those of the world. 
But if the happiness of home be precious, we 
have that at stake. If our intellectual and 
moral good be worth preserving, we have 
that to cherish. If our religious influence be 
the most important treasure committed to 
our trust, we have that to hold secure. All 
to which the best feelings of the heart attach 
themselves as lovely and enduring is ours, 
if we maintain this conflict as we ought; and 
sink under it we never need, for we know to 
whom to go for help. 

Let us then remember that a worldly 
spirit is the very opposite of that which finds 
its home in Heaven; ‘and if our interests are 
sufficiently engaged in what is spiritual and 
eternal, we shall not easily be turned away 
to fix them upon “ lower things.” 


THE 


DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND: 


THEIR _ 


|| POSITION IN SOCIETY, CHARACTER, AND RESPONSIBILITIES. | 


BY MRS. ELLIS, - 


AUTHOR OF “THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “SONS OF THE SOIL,” “HINTS TO MAKE 
HOME HAPPY,” AND “‘'THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.” 


UNIFORM EDITION, 
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


NEW-YORK: 
J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET. 
1843.. 


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THERE can be no more gratifying cir- 
cumstance to a writer, than to find that a 
subject which has occupied her thoughts, 
and employed her pen, has also been oc- 
cupying the thoughts of thousands of her 
fellow-beings ; but she is gratified in a 
still higher degree to find, that the pecu- 
liar views she entertains on that subject, 
are beginning to be entertained by a vast 
number of the intelligent and thinking 
part of the community, with whom she 
was not previously aware of sharing, 
either in their sympathy, or their con- 
victions. 

Such are the circumstances under 
which “’The Women of England” has 
been received by the public, with a degree 
of favor, which the merits of the work 
alone would never have procured for it. 
And as no homage of mere admiration 
could have been so welcome to the Author, 
as the approval it has met with at many 
an English hearth, she has been induced 
to ask the attention of the public again, 
to a further exemplification of some sub- 
jects but slightly touched upon, and a 
candid examination of others which found 
no place in that work. 

The more minute the details of indi- 
vidual, domestic, and social duty, to which 
allusion is made, the more necessary it 
becomes to make a distinct classification 
of the different eras in woman’s personal 
experience; the Author, therefore, pro- 
poses dividing the subject into three parts, 
in which will be separately considered, 
the character and situation of the Daugh- 
ters, Wives, and Mothers of England. 


PREFACE. 


The Daughters of England only form 
the subject of the present volume: and 
as in a former work the remarks which 
were offered to the public upon the social 
and domestic duties of woman, were ex- 
pressly limited to the middle ranks of so- 
ciety in Great Britain ; so, in the present, 
it must be clearly understood as the in- 
tention of the writer to address herself 
especially to the same interesting and in- 
fluential class of her countrywomen. 
Much that is contained in that volume, 
too, might with propriety have been re- 
peated here, had not the Author preferred 
referring the reader again to those pages, 
assured that she will be more readily par- 
doned for this liberty, than for transcrib- 
ing a fainter copy of what was written in 
the first instance fresh from the heart. 

It seems to be the peculiar taste of the 
present day to write, and to read, on the 
subject of woman. Some apology for 
thus taxing the patience of the public 
might be necessary, were it not that both 
honor and justice are due to a theme, in 
which a female sovereign may, without 
presumption, be- supposed to sympathize 
with her people. Thus, while the char- 
acter of the daughter, the wife, and the 
mother, are so beautifully exemplified in 
connection with the dignity of a British 
Queen, it is the privilege of the humblest, 
as well as the most exalted of her sub- 
jects, to know that the heart of woman, 
in all her tenderest and holiest feelings, 
is the same beneath the shelter of a cot- 
tage, as under the canopy of a throne. 


Rose Hitz, January 10th, 1842. 


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* 


THE 


DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER I. 


IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 


Ir it were possible for a human being to be 
suddenly, and for the first time, awakened. to 
consciousness, ‘with the full possession of all 
its reasoning faculties, the natural inquiry of 
such a being would be, “What am I?—how 
am I to act?—and, what are my capabilities 
for action 

The sphere upon which a young woman 
enters on first leaving school, or, to use a 
popular phrase, on “completing her educa- 
tion,” is so entirely new to her, her mind is 
so often the subject of new impressions, and 
her attention so frequently absorbed by new 
motives for exertion, that, if at all accustomed 
to reflect, we cannot doubt but she will make 
these, or similar questions, the subject of seri- 
ous inquiry—* What is my position in socie- 
ty? what dol aim at? and what means do I 
intend to employ for the accomplishment of 
my purpose?’ And it is to assist any of the 
daughters of England, who may be making 
these inquiries in sincerity of heart, that I 
would ask their attention to the following 
pages ; just as an experienced traveller, who 
had himself often stepped aside from the 
safest path, and found the difficulty of re- 
turning, would be anxious to leave directions 
for others who might follow, in order that 
they might avoid the dangers with which he 
had already become acquainted, and pursue 
their course with greater certainty of attain- 
ing the end desired. 

First, then, What is your position in socie- 
| ty? for, until this point is clearly settled in 
your own mind, it would be vain to attempt 


a — nee 


any description of the plan to be pursued. 
The settlement of this point, however, must 
depend upon yourselves. Whether your are 
rich, or poor, an orphan, or the child of 
watchful parents—one of a numerous fami- 
ly, or comparatively alone—filling an exalted 
or an humble position—of highly gifted mind, 
or otherwise—all these points must be clear- 
ly ascertained before you can properly under- 
stand the kind of duty required of you. 
How these questions might be answered, is 
of no importance to the writer, in the present 
stage of this work. The importance of their 
being clearly and faithfully answered to your- 
selves, is all she would enforce. 

For my own purpose, it is not necessary 
to go further into your particular history or 
circumstances, than to regard you as women, 
and, as I hope, Christian women. As Chris- 
tian women, then, I address you. This is 
placing you on high ground; yet surely there 
are few of my young countrywomen who 
would be willing to take lower. 

As women, then, the first thing of import- 
ance is to be content to be inferior to men— 
inferior in mental power, in the,same propor- 
tion that you are inferior in bodily strength. 
Facility of movement, aptitude, and grace, 
the bodily frame of woman may possess in a 
higher degree than that of man; just as in 
the softer touches of mental and spiritual 
beauty, her character may present a lovelier 
page than his. Yet, as the great attribute of 
power must still be wanting there, it becomes 
more immediately her business to inquire 
how this want may be supplied. | 

An able and eloquent writer on “ Wo- 
man’s Mission,” has justly observed that 


ee 


ia 


woman’s strength isin her influence. And, in 
order to render this influence more complete, 
you will find, on examination, that you are 
by nature endowed with peculiar faculties— 
With a quickness of perception, facility of 
adaptation, and acuteness of feeling, which 
fit you especially for the part you have to 
act in life; and which, at the same time, 
render you, in a higher degree than men, 
susceptible both of pain and pleasure. 

These are your qualifications as mere wo- 
men. As Christians, how wide is the pros- 
pect which opens before you—how various 
the claims upon your attention—how vast 
your capabilities—how deep the responsibility 
which those capabilities involve! In the 
first place, you are not alone; you are one 
of a family—of a social circle—of a commu- 
nity—of a nation. You are a being whose 
existence will never terminate, who musi live 
for ever, and whose happiness or misery 
through that endless future which lies before 
you, will be influenced by the choice you are 
now in the act of making. 

What, then, is the great object of your 
life? “To be good and happy,” you will 
probably say ; or, “ To be happy and good.” 
Which is it? For there is an important dif- 
ference in giving precedence to one or the 
other of these two words. In one case, your 
aim is to secure to yourself all the advanta- 
ges you can possibly enjoy, and wait for the 
satisfaction they produce, before you begin 
the great business of self-improvement. In 
the other, you look at your duties first, ex- 
amine them well, submit yourself without 
reserve to thei claims, and, having made 
them habitual, reap your reward in that hap- 
piness of which no human being can deprive 
you, and which no earthly event can entirely 
destroy. 


LS 


yourself, or for others? Perhaps you have 
no definite aim as relates to this subject. 
You are ashamed to think of living only for 


others ; you therefore put away the thought, 
and conclude to leave this important subject 
until some future day. . Do not, however, be 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


have decided, and are acting upon the decis- 


Is it your intention beyond this to live for 


yourself, and deem it hard to live entirely for’ 


| 


deceived by such a fallacious conclusion. 
Each day of your life will prove that you 


ion you make on this momentous point. 
Your conduct in society proves it; your be- 
havior in your family, every thought which 
occupies your mind, every wish you breathe, 
every plan you form, every pleasure you en- 
joy, every pain you suffer—all prove whether 
it is your object to live for yourself, or for 
others. 3 | 

Again, is it your aim to live for this world 
only, or for eternity? This is the question 
of supreme importance, which all who pro- 
fess to be Christians, and who think serious- 
ly, must ask and answer to themselves. 
There can be no delay here. Time is silent- 
ly deciding this question for you. Before 
another day has passed, you will be so much 
nearer to the kingdom of heaven, or so much 
further from it. Another day, another, and 
another, of this fearful indecision, will be 
adding to your distance from the path of 
peace, and rendering your task more difficult 
if you should afterwards seek to return. 

If it be your deliberate desire to live for 
this world only, all the highest faculties of 
your nature may then lie dormant, for there 
is no field of exercise here, to make the cul- 
tivation of them worth the pains. [If it is 
your deliberate desire to live for this world 
only, the improvement of the bodily senses 
becomes more properly the object of primary 
interest, in order that you may taste, smell, 
feel, hear, and see, with more acuteness. A 
little invention, a little calculation, a little ob- 
servation of cause and effect, may be neces- 
sary, in order that the senses may be grati- 
fied in a higher degree ; but beyond this, all 
would indeed be worse than vanity, that 
would tend to raise the human mind to a 
knowledge of its own capabilities, and yet 
leave it to perish with the frail tenement it 
inhabits. 

I cannot, however, suppose it possible that 
any daughter of Christian parents, in this 
enlightened country, would deliberately make 
so blind, so despicable a choice. And if || 
your aim be to live for eternity; if you || © 


| 


ca i i a 


IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 7 


| would really make this an object, not merely 
| to read or to talk about, but to strive after, 
as the highest good you are capable of 
conceiving, then is the great mystery of your 
being unravelled—then is a field of exercise 
laid open for the noblest faculties of your 
soul—then has faith its true foundation, hope 
its unextinguishable beacon, and charity its 
sure reward. 

I must now take it for granted, that the 
youthful reader of these pages has reflected 
seriously upon her position in society as a 
woman, has acknowledged her inferiority to 
man, has examined her own nature, and 
found there a capability of feeling, a quick- 
‘ness of perception, and a facility of adapta- 
| tion, beyond what he possesses, and which, 
| consequently, fit her for a distinct and sepa- 
| rate sphere; and I would also gladly per- 
suade myself, that the same individual, as a 
Christian woman, has made her decision not 
| to live for herself, so.much as for others; 
but, above all, not to live for this world, so 
much as for eternity. The question then 
arises—What means are to be adopted in 
the pursuit of this most desirable end ? 
Some of my young readers will perhaps be 
disposed to exclaim, “ Why, this is but the 
old story of giving up the world, and all its 
pleasures !” But let them not be too hasty 
in their conclusions. It is not a system of 
giving up which I am about to recommend 
to them, so much as one of attaining. My 
advice is rather to advance than to retreat, 
yet to be sure that you advance in the right 
way. Instead, therefore, of depreciating the 
value of their advantages and acquirements, 
it is my intention to point out, so far as I am 
able, how all these advantages may be made 
conducive to the great end I have already 
supposed them to have in view—that of liv- 
ing for others, rather than for themselves— 
of living for eternity, rather than for time. 

I have already stated, that I suppose my- 
self to be addressing young women who are 
professedly Christians, and who know that 
the profession of Christianity as the religion 
of the Bible, involves responsibility for every 
talent they possess. By responsibility I 


mean, that they should consider themselves, 
during the whole of their lives, as in a condi- 
to say, if called upon to answer, whether 
they have made use of the best means they 
were acquainted with, for attaining what they 
believed to be the most desirable end. 
Youth and health are means of the utmost 
importance in this great work. Youth is the 
season of impressions, and can never be re- 
called; health is a blessing of such boundless 
value, that when lost it may safely be said 
to be sighed for more than any other, for the 
sake of the countless advantages it affords. 
Education is another means, which you are 
now supposed to be enjoying in its fullest 


extent; for I have already said that I sup- 


pose myself to be addressing young women 
who are popularly spoken of as having just 
completed their education. Fresh from the 
master’s hand, you will therefore never pos- 
sess in greater perfection the entire sum of 
your scholastic attainments than now. Read- 
ing and conversation, it is true, may improve 
your mind ; but of your present possessions, ! 


in the way of learning and accomplishments, | 


{ 
te 


how many will be lost through indolence or 
neglect, and how many more will give place | 
to claims of greater urgency, or subjects of 
more lively interest ! | 
The present moment, then, is the time to | 
take into account the right use of all your 
knowledge and all your accomplishments. 
What is the precise amount of these, we will 
not presume to ask ; but let it not be forgot- 
ten, that your accountability extends to the | 
time, the trouble, and the expense bestowed 
on your education, as well as to what you | 
may have actually acquired. How many | 
years have you been at school ?—We will | 
suppose from two to ten, and that from one || 
hundred pounds, to five or more, have been 


expended upon you during this time ; add to 


. this the number of teachers employed in your 


ted to your use, the time—to say nothing of 
the patience—bestowed upon you, the anxie- | 
ty of parents, who probably spared with dif- 
ficulty the sum that was necessary for your 
education, their solicitude, their self-denial, | 


| 
| 
instruction, the number of books appropria- 
1 
{| 


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i¢ 8) 


their prayers that this sum might be well ap- 
plied ; reflect upon all these, and you will 
perceive that a debt has been contracted, 
which you have to discharge to your parents, 
your family, and to society—that you have 
enjoyed a vast amount of advantages, for 
which you have to account to the great 
Author of your being. 

Such, then, is your position in life; a 
Christian’ woman, and therefore one whose 
first duty is to ascertain her proper place—a 
sensitive and intelligent being, more quick to 
feel than to understand, and therefore more 
under the necessity of learning to feel right- 
ly—a responsible being, with numberless tal- 
ents to be accounted for, and believing that 
no talent was ever given in vain, but that all, 
however apparently trifling in themselves, 
are capable of being so used as to promote 


the great end of our being, the happiness of 


our fellow-creatures, and the glory of our 
Creator. 

Let not my young friends, however, sup- 
pose that lam about to lay down for them 
some system of Spartan discipline, some tron 
rule, by which to effect the subjugation of all 
that is buoyant in health, and delightful in the 
season of youth. The rule I would propose 
to them is one by which they may become 
beloved as well as lovely—the source of hap- 
piness to others, as well as happy in them- 
selves. My desire is to assist them to over- 
come the three great enemies to their tem- 
poral and eternal good—their selfishness, 
indolence, and vanity, and to establish in their 
stead feelings of benevolence and habits of 
industry, so blended with Christian meekness, 
that while affording pleasure to all who live 
within the sphere of their influence, they shall 
be unconscious of the charm by which they 
please. 

I have already stated, that women, in their 
position in life, must be content to be inferior 
to men ; butas their inferiority consists chiefly 
in their want of power, this deficiency is 
abundantly made up to them by their capa- 
bility of exercising influence ; it is made up 
to them also in other ways, incalculable in 
their number and extent, but in none so ef- 


eS 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


fectually as by that order of Divine Provi- 
dence which places them, in a moral and re- 
ligious point of view, on the same level with 


-man; nor can it be a subject of regret to any 


right-minded woman, that they are not only 
exempt from the most laborious occupations 
both of mind and body, but also from the 
necessity of engaging in those eager pecunia- 
ry speculations, and in that fierce conflict of 
worldly interests, by which men are so deep- 
ly occupied as to be in a manner compelled 
to stifle their best feelings, until they become 
in reality the charactérs they at first only as- 
sumed. Can it be a subject of regret to any 
kind and feeling woman, that her sphere of 
action is one adapted to the exercise of the 
affections, where she may love, and trust, 
and hope, and serve, to the utmost of her 
wishes? Can it be a subject of regret that 
she is not called upon, so much as man, to 
calculate, to compete, to struggle, but rather 
to occupy a sphere in which the elements of 
discord cannot with propriety be admitted— 
in which beauty and order are expected to 
denote her presence, and where the exercise 
of benevolence is the duty she is most fre- 
quently called upon to perform? 

Women almost universally consider them- 
selves, and wish to be considered by others, 
as extremely affectionate; scarcely can a 
more severe libel be pronounced upon a wo- 
man than to say that she is not so. Now 
the whole law of woman’s life is a law of love. 
I propose, therefore, to treat the subject in 
this light—to try whether the neglect of their 
peculiar duties does not imply an absence of 
love, and whether the principle of love, tho- 
roughly carried out, would not so influence 
their conduct and feelings as to render them 
all which their best friends could desire. 


Let us, however, clearly understand each | 


other at the outset. To love, is a very differ- 
ent thing from a desire to be beloved. To 
love, is woman’s nature—to be beloved is the 
consequence of her having properly exercised 
and controlled that nature. 
man’s duty—to be beloved, is her reward. 
Does the subject, when considered in this 


point of view, appear less attractive? “ No,” 


ee) 


To love, is wo- 


| 
| 


A RE A a SE RS PRES SEES ER an TT 


IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 9 


you reply, “it constitutes the happiness of 
every generous soul, to love; and if that be 
the secret of our duty, the whole life of wo- 
man must be a pleasant journey on a path of 
flowers.” 

Some writers have asserted, that along 
with the power to love, we all possess, in an 
equal degree, the power to hate. I am not 
prepared to go this length, because I would 
not acknowledge the principle of hatred in 
any enlightened mind ; yet I do believe, that 
in proportion to our capability of being at- 
tracted by certain persons or things, is our 
liability to be repelled by others, and that 
along with such repulsion there is a feeling 
of dislike, which belongs to women ina higher 
degree than it does to men, in the same pro- 
portion that their perceptions are more acute, 
and their attention more easily excited by 
the minuter shades of difference in certain 
things. Although not willingly recognising 
the sensation of hatred, as applied to any thing 
but sin, 1 am compelled to use the word, in 
order to render my meaning more obvious ; 
and certainly, when we listen to the unre- 
strained conversation ofthe generality of young 
ladies, we cannot hesitate to suppose that 
the sensation of hatred towards certain per- 
sons or things, does, in reality, form part of 
the most important business of their lives. 

To love and to hate, then, seem to be the 


| two things which it is most natural and most 


easy for women to do. In these two principles 
how many of the actions of their lives origi- 
nate! How important is it, therefore, that 
they should learn in early life to love and 
hate aright ! 


Most young women of respectable parent-_ 
| age and education, believe that they love 

} virtue and hate vice. 
| ascertained what virtue and vice are—have 


But have they clearly 


they examined the meaning of these two im- 


| portant words by the light of the world, or 
| by the light of divine truth? Have they list- 
| ened to the plausible reasoning of what is 
| called society; where things are often spoken 
l| of by false names, and where vulgar vice is 
| distinguished from that which is sanctioned 


| by good breeding? or have they gone directly 


channel, it requires a painful and determined 


to the eternal and immutable principles of 
good and evil, as explained in the Bible, 
which they profess to believe? have they by 
this test tried all their favorite habits—their 
sweet weaknesses—their darling idols? and 
have they been willing to abide the result of 
this test—to love whatever approaches that 
standard of moral excellence, and to renounce 
whatever is offensive to the pure eye of ‘|| 
Omniscience ? Now, when we reflect that all 
this must be done before we can safely give || 
ourselves up either to love or hate, we shall } 
probably cease to think that our Spey duty 
is so easily performed. 

Youth is the season for regulating these |} 
emotions as we ought, because it is compara- |} 
tively easy to govern our affections when | 
first awakened ; after they have been al- 
lowed for some time to flow in any particular 


effort to restrain or divert their course ; nor 
does the constitution of the human mind en- 
dure this revulsion of feeling unharmed. As 
the country over whose surface an impetu- 
ous river has poured its waters, retains, after 
those waters are gone, the sterile track they 
once pursued, marring the picture as with a 
scar—a seamy track of barrenness and 
drought ; so the course of misplaced affec- 
tion leaves its indelible trace upon the char- 
acter, breaking the harmony of what might 
otherwise have been most attractive in its 
beauty and repose. 

There is, perhaps, no subject on which 
young women are apt to make so many and 
such fatal mistakes as in the regulation of 
their emotions of attraction and repulsion ; 
and chiefly for this reason—because there is 
a popular notion prevailing among them, 
that it is exceedingly becoming to act from 
the impulse of the moment, to be what they 
call “the creatures of feeling,” or, in other | 
words, to exclude the high attribute of rea- 
son from those very emotions which are given | 
them, especially, to serve the most exalted 
purposes. “It is a cold philosophy,” they 
say, “to calculate before you feel ;” and thus | 
they choose to act from impulse rather than | 
from principle. 


10 


The unnatural mother does this when she 
singles out a favorite child as the recipient 
of all her endearments, leaving the neglected 
one to pine away its little life. ‘The foolish 
mother does this, when she withholds, from 
imagined tenderness, the wholesome disci- 
pline which infancy requires—choosing for 
her unconscious offspring a succession of 
momentary indulgences which are sure to 
entail upon them years of suffering in after 
life. The fickle friend does this, when she 
conceives a sudden distaste for the com- 
panion she has professed to love. The un- 
faithful wife does this, when she allows her 


thoughts to wander from her rightful lord. | 


All women have done this, who have com- 
mitted those frightful crimes which stain the 
page of history—all have acted from impulse, 
and by far the greater number have acted 
under the influence of misplaced affection. 
It is, indeed, appalling to contemplate the ex- 
tent of ruin and of wretchedness to which 
woman may be carried by the force of her 
own impetuous and unregulated feelings. 
Her faults are not those of selfish calcula- 
tion ; she makes no stipulation for her own 
or others’ safety ; when once she renounces 
principle, therefore, and gives herself up to 
act as the mere creature of impulse, there is 
no hope for her, except that experience, by 
its painful chastisements, may bring her back 
to wisdom and to peace. 

Does this seem a hard sentence to pro- 
nounce upon those impetuous young crea- 
tures who make it their boast that they never 
stay to think, that they cannot reason, and 
were only born to feel? Hard as it is, ob- 
servation proves it true. If we do not ac- 
knowledge any regular system of conduct, 
habit will render that systematical which is 
our customary choice ; and if we choose day 
by day to act from impulse rather than prin- 
ciple, we yield ourselves fo a fatal and delu- 
sive system, the worst consequences of 
which will follow us beyond the grave. 

As youth is the season for making this im- 
portant choice, so it is the season for impres- 
sions. You will never remember what you 
acquire in after life, as you will remember 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


only for your own consolation, and the re- 


what you are acquiring now. The know- 
ledge you now obtain of evil will haunt you 
through future years, like a dark spectre in 
your path; while the glimpses of virtue| 
which you now perceive irradiating the circle 
in which you move, will re-appear before 
you to the end of life, surrounded by the 
same bright halo which adorns them now. 
If you have loved the virtuous and the good 
—if you have associated yourselves with 
their pursuits, and made their aims and ob- 
jects yours in early life—the remembrance 
of these early friends will form a bright spot 
in your existence, to recur to as long as that 
existence lasts. 

It is therefore of the highest importance to 
the right government of your affections, that 
you should endeavor to form clear notions 
of good and evil, in order that you may know 
how to choose the one and refuse the other ; || 
not to take things for granted; not to believe 
that is always best which is most approved 
by the world, unless you would prefer the 
approbation of man to that of God; but to 
be willing to see the truth, whatever it may 
be, and as such to embrace it. 

In the gospel of Christ there are truths so 
simple and so clear, so perfectly in keeping 
one with another, that none need be kept in 
the dark’as to the principles on which they 
ought to act, if they are but willing to sub- 
mit themselves to this rule. 

I speak here of the practical part of the 
Scriptures only ; but in connection with the 
vivid and lasting impressions made upon the 
mind of youth, I would strongly enforce the 
importance of choosing that season for ob- 
taining an intimate knowledge of the Scrip- 
tures altogether. You can scarcely at pres- 
ent be aware of the extreme value of this 
knowledge : it will serve you in after life as 
a rich and precious store to draw upon, not 


newal of your own faith, but for the comfort, 
guidance, and support of all who come with- || 
in the sphere of your influence, or depend 
upon you for aid in the great work of pre- 
paring for eternity. Without this knowledge, 
how feeble will be your arguments on the]. 


, IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 


most important of all subjects, how useless 


| your assertions, and how devoid of efficacy 


your endeavors to disseminate the principles 
of Divine Truth! How enviable does the 
possession of this knowledge now appear to 
many a zealous Christian who has to deplore 
the consequences of a neglected’ youth ! for I 
repeat, that in after life it is almost impossi- 
ble to impress the mind with the same vivid- 
ness, and consequently to enrich the memory 
with the same amount of useful knowledge, 
as when the aspect of the world is new, and 
the feelings comparatively unoccupied and 
unimpressed. 

The same observations which occur in re- 
lation to the reading of the Scriptures at an 
early period of life, apply, in degree, to the 
acquisition of all other kinds of knowledge. 
Never again will the mind be so free from 
distraction as now ; never again will the 
claims of duty be so few; never again will 
the memory be so unoccupied. If, therefore, 
a store of knowledge is not laid up while the 
mind is in this state, it will be found wanting 
when most needed ; and difficult indeed is 


_the task, and mortifying the situation, of 


those whose information has to be sought, in 
order to supply the demand of every hour. 
As well might the cultivator of the soil allow 
his grain to remain in the fields, until hunger 
reminded him that bread was wanted on his 
board ; as the woman who expects to fill a 
respectable station in life, go forth into society 
unprovided with that supply of knowledge 
and information which she will there find per- 
petually required. The use of such knowledge 
is a different question, and remains yet to be 
discussed ; but on the importance of its ac- 
quisition in the season of youth, there can be 
but one opinion among experienced and ra- 
tional beings. 

Of all kinds of knowledge, that of our own 
ignorance is the first to be acquired. It is an 
humbling lesson for those to learn, who are 
built up on the foundation of whatis called a 
good education ; yet such is the fact, that the 
knowledge which young ladies bring home 
with them from school, forms but a very 
small part of that which they will be expect- 


11 | 


ed to possess. Indeed, such is the illimitable 
nature of knowledge, that persons can only 
be said to know much or little by compari- 
son. It is by comparing ourselves with 
others, and especially with those who are 
more advanced in life, that we first learn the 
important secret of our own deficiencies. 
And it is good to keep the mind open to this | 
truth ; for without having clearly ascertained 
our own inferiority, we should always be lia- 
ble to make the most egregious mistakes ; 
not only by telling those around us what 
they already know, and wearying our ac- 
quaintance with the most tedious common- 
place,—but by the worst kind of false as- 
sumption—by placing ourselves in exalted 
positions, and thereby rendering our igno- 
rance more conspicuous. 

All this, however, though a fruitful source 
of folly and ridicule, is of trifling importance 
compared with the absolute want—the mental 
poverty—the moral destitution, necessarily 
occasioned by an absence of true knowledge; 
we must begin, therefore, by opening our | 
minds to the truth, not by adopting the opin- | 
ions of this or that set of persons, but by 
reading the works of the best authors, by 
keeping the mind unbiassed by the writings | 
or the conversation of persons infected with 
prejudice, and by endeavoring to view every 
object in its full extent, its breadth, its reality, 


ual condition, that she seldom makes any 
equivalent effort to do this. She is not only | 
too often occupied with the mere frivolities ! 
of life, to estimate the true value, of general | 
knowledge; but, she is also too apt to hang 
her credulity upon her affections, and to take 
any thing for granted which is believed by 
those whom she loves. It is true, this ser- 
vility of mind may appear to some like act- 
ing out the law of love, which I am so anx- 
ious to advocate; but how is it, if their dearest | 
friends are in error, and if they err in such 
a way as to endanger their temporal and 
eternal interests? Is it not a higher and no- 
bler effort of love, to see and rectify such er- 
ror, than to endeavor to imbibe the same, for 


7 


and its importance. 
It is the grand defect in woman’s intellect- | 


| the sake of being pee Wig? in folly, or in 
| sin? 

| One of the greatest faults in the system of 
| education pursued in the present day, is that 
| of considering youth as the season for read- 
j ing short and easy books. Although the 
ablest of female writers—I had almost said 
the wisest of women—has left on record her 


to be the fashion, to place in the hands of 
young persons, all kinds of abstracts, sum- 
I maries, and short means of arriving at facts ; 

as if the only use of knowledge was to be 
| able to repeat by rote a list of the dates of 
|| public events. 
Now, if ever an entire history or a com- 
plete work is worth reading, it must be at an 
early period of life, when attention and leisure 
are both at our command. By the early and 
studious reading of books of this description, 
those important events which it is of so much 
consequence to impress upon the mind, be- 
come interwoven in the memory, with the 
spirit and style of the author; so that instead 
of the youthful reader becoming possessed 
' of nothing more than a mere table of facts, 

she is in reality associating herself with a be- 
| ing of the highest order of mind, seeing with 
the eyes of the author, breathing his atmo- 
sphere, thinking his thoughts, and imbibing, 
through a thousand indirect channels, the 


| 
very essence of his genius. 


This is the only kind of reading which is 
really worthy of the name. Abstracts and 
compendiums may very properly be glanced 
over in after life, for the sake of refreshing 
the memory as to dates and facts; but unless 
the works of the best authors have been 
read in this manner in early life, there will 
always be something vapid in our conversa- 

| tion, contracted in our views, prejudiced in 
our mode of judging, and vulgar in our 
habits of thinking and speaking of things in 
general. In vain may we attempt to hide 
this great deficiency. Art may in some 
measure conceal what is wanting ; but it can- 
| not bring to light what does not exist. Pru- 
| dence may seal the lips, and female tact may 
point out when to speak with safety, and 


sia: aE THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. * 


when to withhold a remark; but all those || 
enlightened views, all that bold launching |} 
forth into the region of intellect, all the com- | 
_panionship of gifted minds, which intelligent |} 
_women, even in their inferior capacity, may } 
at least delight in, will be wanting to the hap- }| 
-_piness of her who chooses to waste the pre- 
cious hours of youth in idleness or frivolity. 
testimony against this practice, it continues | 


Nor is it easy for after study to make up 
the deficiency of what ought to have been 
acquired in youth. Bare information dragged 
in to supply the want of the moment, without 
arrangement, and without previous thought, 
too often resembles in its crudeness and in- 
appropriate display, a provision of raw fruits, 
and undressed food, instead of the luxuries 
of an elegant and well-furnished board. 

I have heard it pleaded by young women, 
that they did “not care for knowledge ”—* did 
not wish to be clever.” And if such persons 
would be satisfied to fill the lowest place in 
society, to creep through the world alone, or 
to have silly husbands, and idiot sons, we 
should say that their ambition was equal to 
their destiny. But when we see the same 
persons jealous of their rights as intellectual 
beings, aspiring to be the companions of ra- 
tional men, and, above all, the early instruct- 
ors of immortal beings, we blush to contem- 
plate such lamentable destitution of right feel- 
ing, and can only forgive their presumption 
in consideration to their ignorance and fol- 


ly. 


oe 


aca” ea lineata tinal Seater fe in 


I cannot believe of any of the young per- 
sons who may read these pages, that they 
could be guilty of such an act of ingratitude 
to the great Author of their being, and the 
Giver of evey good and perfect gift they pos- 
sess, as deliberately to choose to consign to 
oblivion and neglect the intellectual part of 
their nature, which may justly be regarded 
as the highest of these gifts. I would rather 
suppose them already acquainted with the 
fact, that those passions and emotions, to 
the exercise of which they believe themselves 
especially called, are many of them such as 
are common to the inferior orders of animals, 
while the possession of an understanding 
of, of unlimited extension, is an attribute 


ECONOMY OF TIME. 


of the Divine nature, and one which raises 
them to a level with the angels. 


CHAPTER II. 
ECONOMY OF TIME. 


In all our pursuits, but especially in the 
acquisition of knowledge, it is highly impor- 

| tant to habituate ourselves to minute ‘calcu- 
lations upon the value and progress of time. 
That writer who could teach us how to esti- 
mate this treasure, and how to realize its 
fleetness, would confer a lasting benefit upon 
his fellow-creatures. We all know how to 
talk of time flying fast. It is, in short, the 
subject of our most familiar proverbs, the 
burden of the minstrel’s song, the theme of 
the preacher’s discourse, the impress we affix 
to our lightest pleasures, the inscription that 
remains upon our tombs. Yet how little do 
we actually realize of the silent and ceaseless 
progress of time! It is true, that one of the 
first exclamations which infant lips are taught 
to utter is the word “ gone ;” and the beautiful 
expression, “ gone for ever,” occurs with fre- 
quency in our poetical phraseology. Clean 
gone for ever, is the still more expressive lan- 
guage of Scripture; and if any combination 
of words could be made to convey to us clear 
and striking impressions of this idea, it would 
be found among those of the inspired wri- 
ters. Yet still we go on from day to day, in- 
sensible, and unimpressed by this, the most 
sublime and appalling reality of our existence. 
The fact that no single moment of our 
lives, whether happy or miserable, whether 
wasted or well employed, can ever be recall- 
ed, is of itself one of the most momentous 
truths with which we are acquainted—that 
each hour of our past existence, whether 
marked by wisdom or by folly, is gone for 
ever; and that neither ingenuity, nor effort, 
nor purchase, nor prayer, can call it back. 
Nay, so far is it removed from the range of 
possibility, that we should live again for any 
portion of our past lives, that it was not even 


among the miracles wrought by the Saviour 
while on earth. Other apparent impossibili- 
ties he did accomplish before the eyes of 
wondering multitudes, breaking the bonds of 
nature, and even raising the dead to life ; yet, 
we find not among these mighty works, 
that he said to any single day in man’s ex- 
perience, “ Thou shalt dawn again.” No. 
Even the familiar face of yesterday is turned 
away from us for ever; and though so close- 
ly followed by the remembrance of the past 
night, as well might we attempt to grasp the 
stars, as to turn back and enjoy its sweet re- 
pose again. 

What then is the consequence? Since time, 
this great ocean of wealth, is ebbing away 
from us day by day, and hour by hour; since 
it must inevitably diminish, and since we 
know the lowest rate at which it must go, 
though none can tell how soon it may to them 
be gone for ever, is it not our first duty to 
make the best possible use of what remains, 
and to begin in earnest, before another day 
shall escape from our hold ? 

We will suppose the case of a man who 
finds himself the possessor of a vast estate, 
with the power to cultivate it as he will, and 
to derive any amount of revenue from it 
which his ingenuity or labor may obtain for 
him; yet, with this condition—that an enemy 
shall be entitled to take away a certain por- 
tion of it every day, until the whole is gone. 
The enemy might, under certain circumstan- 
ces, with which the owner could not be ac- 
quainted, enjoy the liberty of taking the whole 
at once; but a certain part he must take 
every day. Now, would not the man who 
held this property on such a tenure, look 
sharply to his own interest, and endeavor to 
discover by what means he could turn his 
estate to the best account, before its extent 
should be so far diminished as to cripple his 
means ? Reflecting, too, that each day it was 
becoming less, and that the smaller its extent, 
the smaller would be the returns he might 
expect, would he not begin, without the loss 
of a single day, so to improve his land, to till, 
to sow, and to prepare for getting in his pro- 
duce, as that he might derive a lasting rev- 


~ 13 | 


14 


enue of profit from the largest portion, be- 
fore it should have passed out of his own 
hands? 

A very common understanding, and a very 
trifling amount of knowledge, would prompt 
the possessor of such an estate to do this; 
yet, with regard to time, that most valuable 
of earthly possessions, how few of us act 
upon this principle! With some, the extent 
of this estate is narrowing to a very small 
circle ; but with the class of human beings 
whom I am addressing, there is, in all human 
probability, a wider field for them to speculate 
upon. Illness, it is true, may come and 
snatch away a large portion, and death may 
be waiting to grasp the whole: how much 
more important is it, then, to begin to cultivate 
and reap in time! 

Perhaps it is the apparent extent of our 
prospect in early life, which deludes us into 
the belief that the enemy is actually not tak- 
ing any thing away. Still there are daily and 
hourly evidences of the lapse of time, which 
would serve to remind us of the impossibi- 
lity of calling it back, if we would but regard 
them in this light. If, for instance, we have 
committed an egregious folly, if we have act- 
ed unjustly, thrown blame upon the innocent, 
or spoken unkindly to a dear friend—though 
it was but yesterday, last night, or this morn- 
ing—not all our tears, though we might weep 


word ; because the moment which bore that 
stain upon it, would be gone—and gone for 
ever. 

Again, we scarcely. become acquainted with 
life in any of its serious aspects, before death 
is presented to our notice. And where are 
they—“the loved, the lost?” Their days 
have been numbered—all those long days of 
companionship in which their friends might 
have loved, and served them better, are gone 
forever. “ And why,” we ask, when the blow 
falls nearest to ourselves—when the delight 
of our eyes is taken away as with a stroke— 
“ why do not the sun, and the moon, and the 
stars, delay their course 1—why do the flow- 
ers not cease to bloom ?—the light and cheer- 
ful morning not fail to return? above all, why 


ES 8 A A RE 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


oceans, could wash away that single act or’ 


do those around us continue their accustom- 
ed avocations? and why do we join them at 
last, as if nothing had occurred ’ It is be- 
cause time passes on, and on, and neither life, 
nor death, nor joy, nor sorrow, nor any of the 
changes in our weal or wo, present the mi- 


nutest hindrance to his certain progress, or | 
retard for a single moment his triumphant | 


and irresistible career. 


Nor is it simply as a whole, that we have | 
to take into account the momentous subject | 


of time. Every year, and month, and day, 


have their separate amount of responsibility ; | 


but especially the season of youth, because 


the habits we acquire during that period, | 


have an influence upon the whole of our 
after lives. 

The habit of making correct calculations 
upon how much can be done in any stated 


portion of time, is the first thing to begin with, | 


for without this, we are very apt to go on 
with any thing that may happen to interest 
us, to the culpable neglect of more important 
duties. Thus, though it may be well fora 
man to pluck the weeds up in his garden for 
half an hour after breakfast; yet, if his actual 
business lies in the counting-house, or the 
exchange, it would be worse than folly for 
him to remain plucking weeds up for half 
the day. 


In order to make the best use of time, we - 
must lay out beforehand the exact amount | 


proportioned to every occupation in which 
we expect to engage. Casualties will per- 
petually occur demanding an additional al- 
lowance, and something must consequently 
be given up in exchange ; but still our calcu- 
lations may generally be made with a degree 
of certainty, which leaves no excuse for our 
being habitually at a loss what to do. 

_ There is a class of young persons, and I 
fear not a very small one, who rise every 
morning trusting to the day to provide its 
own occupations and amusements. They 
descend from their chambers with a listless, 
dreamy hope that something will occur to 
interest, or enliven them, never imagining 
that they themselves are called upon to enli- 
ven and interest others. 


Such individuals : 


+ 


being liable to disappointment every day, al- 


| most always learn to look upon themselves as 


unfortunate beings, less privileged than others, 
and, in short, ill-treated by faith, or rather by 
Providence, in being placed where they are. 

It is this waiting to be interested, or amus- 
ed, by any thing that may chance to happen, 
which constitutes the great bane of a young 
woinan’s life, and while dreaming on in this 
most unprofitable state, without any definite 
object of pursuit, their minds become the 
prey of a host of enemies, whose attacks 
might have been warded off by a little whole- 
some and determined occupation. Their 
feelings, always too busy for their peace, be- 
come morbid, restless, and ungovernable, for 
want of proper exercise; while imagination, 
allowed to run riot over a boundless field of 
vague and half-formed observations, leads 
their affections in her train, to fix upon what- 
ever object caprice or fancy may select. 

It is not attributing too much importance 
to ihe right economy of time, to say that it 
might prevent all this. I presume not to lay 
down rules for the occupation of every hour. 
Particular duties must always appertain to 
particular situations; and since the necessary 
claims upon our attention are as varied as 
our individual circumstances, that which in 
one would be a right employment of time, 
would be a culpable breach of duty in another. 

There are, however, a few general rules 
which cannot be too clearly or too deeply im- 
pressed upon the mind—rules which the 
rich and the poor would be equally benefited 
by adopting; which the meanest and the 
most exalted individual would alike find it 
safe to act upon; and by which the wisest 
and best of mankind might increase their 
means and extend their sphere of usefulness 
to their fellow-creatures. 

The first of these rules is to accustom 
yourselves every morning to say what you 
are intending to do; and every night, with 
equal faithfulness, to say what you have ac- 
tually done during the day. If you find any 
material difference between what you have 
intended, and what you have achieved, try 
to eo them better, and the next day, 


either lay out for yourself, or, what is far | 
This | 


is the more to be recommended, because we | 


better, endeavor to accomplish more. 


learn, both by experience and observation. | 
that whenever we bring down our good in- | 
tentions to a lower scale, it is a certain symp- | 
tom of some failure either in our moral, intel- | 
Still there is | 


lectual, or physical power. 
much allowance to be made for the inexperi- 


ence of youth, in not being able to limit good | 
intentions by the bounds of what is practica- | 
ble; it is therefore preferable that a little | 
should be taken off, even from what is good | 


in itself, rather than that you should go on 


miscalculating time, and means, to the end | 


of life. 


There are persons, and some considerably | 


advanced in years, who habitually retire to 


rest every night, surprised and disappointed | 


that the whole of their day’s 
been done. 


work has not 
Now, it is evident that such per- 
sons must be essentially wrong in one of 
these two things—either in their calculations 
upon the value and extent of time, or in their 
estimate of their own capabilities; and in 
consequence of these miscalculations, they 
have probably been making the most serious 
mistakes all their lives. They have-been 
promising what they could not perform; de- 
ceiving and disappointing their friends, and 
those who were dependent upon them; be- 
sides harassing their own spirits, and de- 
stroying their own peace, by frightful mis- 
calculations of imperative claims, when there 
was no residue of time at all proportioned to 
such requirements. 

The next rule I would lay down is, if pos- 
sible, of more importance than the first. It 
is, that you should always be able to say what 
you are doing, and not merely what you 
are going to do. “I am going to be so 
busy—I am going to get to my work—I am 
going to prepare for my journey—I am going 


tolearn Latin—I am going to visit a poor. 


neighbor.” These, and ten thousand other 
“goings,” with the frequent addition of the 
word “just” before them, are words which 


form a net-work of delusion, by which hun-' 
dreds of really well-intentioned young persons | 


A I en en ere 


ECONOMY OF TIME. 15 | 


| 


ey, 


16 
are completely entangled. I am just going to 
do this or that good work,” sounds so much 
like “I am really doing it,” that the con- 
science is satisfied for the moment; yet how 
vast is the difference between these two ex- 
pressions when habit has fixed them upon the 
character ! 

To the same class of persons who habitu- 
ally say, “I am going,” rather than “I am 
doing,” belong those who seldom know what 
they really are about; who, coming into a 
room for a particular purpose, and finding a 
book there by chance, open it, and sit down 
to read for half an hour, or an hour, believ- 
ing all the while that they are going to do the 
thing they first intended; or who, setting 
out to walk for the benefit of their health, 
drop in upon a pleasant acquaintance by the 
way, still thinking they are going to walk, 
until the time for doing so has expired, when 
they return home, with cold feet and aching 
heads, half fancying that they have really 
walked, and disappointed that exercise has 
produced no better effect. 

Now, in these two cases, there may be as 
little harm in reading the book as in calling 
upon the acquaintance, and nothing wrong 
in either: but the habit of doing habitually 
what we had not intended to do, and leaving 
undone what we had intended, has so injuri- 
ous an effect in weakening our resolutions, 
and impairing our capacity for making ex- 
act calculations upon time and means, that 
one might pronounce, without much hesita- 
tion, upon a person accustomed to this mode 
of action, the sentence of utter inability to fill 
any situation of usefulness or importance 
among mankind. 

I am inclined to think we should all be suf- 
ficiently astonished, if we would try the ex- 
periment through a single day, of passing 
quickly and promptly from one occupation to 
another. It is, in fact, these “ goings to do,’ 
which constitute so large an amount of wast- 
ed time, for which we are all accountable. 
Few persons deliberately intend to be idle; 
few will allow that they have been so from 
choice; yet how vast a proportion of the 
human race are living in a state of self-de- 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


ception, by persuading themselves they are 
not idle, when they are merely going to act. 
Promptness in doing whatever it is right to 
do now, is one of the great secrets of living. 
By this means, we find our capabilities in- 
creased to an amazing amount; nor can we 
ever know what they really are, until this 
plan of conduct has been fully tried. 

Wisely has it been said, by the greatest of 
moral philosophers, that there is a time for 
every thing. Let it be observed, however, 
that he has not, among his royal maxims, 
spoken of a time for doing nothing; and 
itis fearful to think how large a portion of 
the season of youth is spent in this manner. 

Nor is. it absolute idleness alone which 
claims our attention. The idleness of self- 
delusion has already been described. But 
there is, besides this, a busy idleness, which 
operates with equal force against the right 
economy of time. Busy idleness arises chiefly 
from a restlessness of feeling, which, without 
any calculation as to the fitness of time or 
place, or the ultimate utility of what is done, 
hurries its possessor into a succession of tri- 
fling or ill-timed occupations, frequently as 
annoying to others as they are unproductive 
of any beneficial result. Busy idleness is 
also a disease most difficult to cure, because 
it satisfies for the moment that thirst for oc- 
cupation with which every human being is 
more or less affected, and which has been 
implanted in our nature for the wisest of pur- 
poses. It is under the influence of this pro- 
_pensity to busy idleness, that, with multitudes 
who have no extraordinary capability for re- 
ceiving pleasure, amusement is made to sup- 
ply the place of occupation, and childish tri- 
fling that of intellectual pursuit. 

It may be asked, how does the law of love 
operate here? I answer, precisely in this 
way— We are never so capable of being use- 
ful to others, as when we have learned to 
economize our own time; to make exact cal- 
~culations as to what we are able, or not able, 
to do in any given period; and so to employ 
ourselves as to make the trifles of the mo- 
ment give place to more important avocations. 
Without having cultivated such habits, our 


j 


ECONOMY OF TIME. 


i 
{0 


| intentions, nay, our promises, must often fall 
| short of what we actually perform; so that 
in time, and after many painful disappoint- 
; ments, our friends will cease to depend upon 
| our aid, believing, what may all the while be 
| unjust to our feelings, that we have never 
' entertained any earnest desire to promote 
| their interest. 

| Above all other subjects, however, con- 
| nected with the consideration of time, the 
| law of love bears most directly upon that of 
| punctuality. No one can fail in this point, 
| without committing an act of injury to an- 
| other. If the portion of time allotted to us in 
| this life be aptly compared to a valuable 
estate, of which an enemy robs us by taking 
away a certain portion every day; surely it 
| isa hard case that a friend must usurp the 
same power, and take away another portion, 
contrary to our expectations, and without 
| any previous stipulation that it should be so. 
Yet, of how much of this precious property 
do we deprive our friends during the course 
of a lifetime, by our want of punctuality ? 


and not dur friends only, but all those who’ 


are in any way connected with, or dependent 
upon us. Our friepds, indeed, might possi- 
bly forgive us the injury for the love they 
bear us; but there are the poor—the hard- 
working poor, whose time is often their 
wealth; and strangers, who owe us no kind- 
ness, and who consequently are not able to 
endure this injury without feelings of irrita- 
tion or resentment. 

The evil, too, is one which extends in its 
| consequences, and widens in its influence, be- 
/yond all calculation. Yet, for the sake of 
conveying to the youthful and inexperienced 
reader, some idea of its mode of operation, 

we will suppose the case of a man carrying 
letters or despatches along one of our public 
roads, and so calculating his time as to ap- 
point to be met at some post on the road 
every hour, by this means to transmit his 
despatches by other couriers along branch- 
roads to distant parts of the country. The 
person whose business it is to place these 
_despatches in his hand at a certain time and 
| place, is half an hour too late ; consequently, 


17 


all the couriers along the road are delayed in 
the same proportion, and there is the loss of 
half an hour occasioned, not only to each 
of them, but to all who have depended 
upon their arrival at a certain time. It is 
true, that few of us are placed in the same 
relative position as this man, with regard to 
our fellow-creatures ; yet, none of us act 
alone ; and the mistress of a house, who de- 
tains a poor workman half an hour by her 
want of punctuality, may be the means of his 
receiving reproof, nay, even abuse, from oth- 
ers who have lost their time in consequence 
of his delay ; while others still, and others 
yet beyond, through the wider range of a 
more extensive circle, may have been calcu- 
lating their time and means in dependence 
upon the punctuality of this poor man. 

If on particular occasions which recur 
every day, we find we are generally half an 
hour too late, the evil to others is sometimes 
easily remedied by making our appointment 
half an hour later, and abiding by it. But 
such is not the plan of those who are habitu- 
ally negligent of punctuality. They go on, 
varying from their time, one day perhaps an 
hour, another a quarter of an hour, and oe- 
casionally perhaps being before it, until the 
whole machinery of intercourse with their 
fellow-creatures is deranged-—those of their 
dependents who are inclined to indolence 
taking advantage of their delay ; those who 
are impatient, fretting themselves into angry 
passions at this wanton waste of their pre- 
cious time; and many whose connection 
might perhaps have been highly valuable, 
leaving them altogether, in consequence of 
being wearied or disgusted with the uncer- 
tainty which attended all their proceedings. 

It is not, therefore, our own time only that 
is wasted by our want of punctuality, but 
hours, and days, and months, and years of 
the precious property of others, over which 
we had no right, and which was not inten- 


tionally submitted to our thoughtless expen- 


diture. 

It is often alleged by young persons as be- 
ing of no use for them to be punctual, when 
others are not so, and that they only waste 


ee 


RE A SS 


a eens nn ne ea a a Ce eR ee ne a eee 


aot vey | 


18 


their own time by being ready at the ap- 
pointed moment. All this may be too true ; 
for parents and seniors in a family often have 
themselves to blame for the want of punctu- 
ality in the junior members. Yet is it of no 
importance, whether we are the causes or 
the subjects of injury—whether we practise 
injustice towards others, or only endure it 
ourselves? Surely no generous mind can 
hesitate a moment which alternative to 
choose, especially when such choice refers 
not to any single act, but to a course of con- 
duct pursued through a whole lifetime. Of 
what material consequence will it appear to 
us on the bed of death, that certain individ- 
uals, at different times of our lives, have 
kept us waiting for a few hours, which 
might certainly have been better employed? 
But it will be of immense importance at the 
close of life, if, by our habitual want of punc- 
tuality, we have been the cause of an enor- 
mous waste of time, the property of count- 
less individuals, to whom we can make no 
repayment for any single act of such unli- 
censed robbery. It is the principle of integ- 
rity, then, upon which our punctuality must 
be founded, and the law of love will render it 
habitual. 

As there are few persons who deliberately 
intend to be idle; so there are perhaps still 
fewer who deliberately intend to waste their 
own time, or that of their friends. It is the 
lapse of years, the growth of experience, and 
the establishment of character on some par- 
ticular basis, which tell the humiliating truth, 
that time has been culpably and Byéntably 
wasted. There are other delusions, however, 
besides those already specified, under which 
this fruitless expenditure is unconsciously 
carried on ; and none is perhaps, as a whole, 
more destructive to usefulness, or more fatal 
to domestic peace, than the habit of being al- 
ways a little too late—too late to come—too 
late to go—too late to meet at the place of 
appointment—too late to be useful—too late 
to do good—too late to repent and seek for- 
giveness while the gates of mercy are un- 
| closed. All these may be the consequences 
| of setting out in life, without a firm determi- 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


nation never to yield to the dangerous habit 
of being a little too late. 

In this case it is not so much the absolute 
waste of time, as the waste of feeling, which 
is to be regretted ; for no one can be habitual- 
ly ever so little too late, without experien- 
cing at times a degree of hurry and distraction 
of mind, most destructive of domestic com- 
fort and individual peace. 

To be a few minutes too early, may appear 
to many as inconsistent with the order of the 
present day, when every thing is pushed to 
extremity, and it may consequently be con- 
sidered as a useless waste of time; yet I am 
inclined to think that the moments in which 
we can say, “I am ready,” are among some 
of the most precious of our lives, as affording 
us opportunity for that calm survey of human 
affairs, without which we should pass in a 
state of comparative blindness along the 
thickly-peopled walks of life. ‘To be ready a 
little before the time, is like pausing for a mo- 
ment to see the great machine of human 
events at work, to mark the action and the 
play of every part, and to observe the vast 
amount of feeling which depends upon every 
turn ofthe mighty wheel#f time. 

Who that has stood still, and watched the 
expression of the human countenance during 
the last struggles of a too late preparation for 
pleasure, for business, or for trial, has not, in 
a single moment, read more plain truths on 
that unguarded page than years of its ordi- 
nary expression would have unfolded? Be- 
sides this, however, the great advantage we 
derive from being habitually too early, is the 
power it gives us to husband our forces, to 
make our calculations upon coming events, 
to see how to improve upon yesterday, and 
to resolve to do so; but, above all other 
means of strengthening our better resolutions, 
it affords us time for those mental appeals 
for Divine blessing and support, without 
which we have no right to expect either safe- 
ty, assistance, or success. Fortified in this 
manner, it is less likely that any unexpected 
event should unsettle the balance of our 
minds, because we go forth with calmness, 
prepared either to enjoy with moderation and 


See oe 


a 


Sa a a ae ae EDS SESE 


ECONOMY OF TIME. 


thankfulness, or to suffer with patience and 
resignation. 

Young persons are often beguiled into the 
dangerous habit of being a little too late, by 
the apparent unimportance of each particular 
transgression of the kind during the season 
of youth. If, for instance, they are a little 
too late for breakfast, the matron of the fami- 
ly commences operations without them, and 
they can easily gain time upon some of the 
senior members. At the dinner-hour it is the 
same. ‘They have only to calculate upon a 
few impatient words, and a few angry looks ; 
and it is not the least unfavorable feature of 
their case, that to such looks and words they 
become so accustomed as scarcely to heed 
them, nor isit often that they bring any more 
serious consequences upon themselves by 
their delay, because the young are generally 
so kindly assisted and cared for by their 
friends, that by a long, and patient, and often- 
repeated process of helping, urging, and en- 
treating, they are, for the most part, got ready 
for every important occasion, or, in other 
words, are seldom left behind. 

It is in more advanced life that the evil 
begins to tell upon the happiness of all around 
them; and let it never be forgotten, that the 
more exalted their situation, the wider their 
sphere of influence, the more extensive are 
the evils resulting from any wrong line of 

conduct they may choose to pursue. ‘The 

season of early youth is, therefore, the best 
time for correcting this tendency, before it 
has begun to bear with any serious effects 
upon the good or the happiness of others. 

We will suppose the case of a mistress of 
a family preparing for a journey. Having 
been a little too late with every thing which 
had to be done, there is a frightful accumula- 
tion of demands upon her attention during 
the last day, but especially the last half-hour 
before her departure. In this state of hurry 
and confusion wrong orders are given, which 
have to be counteracted; messengers are 
sent hither and thither, they scarcely know 
for what, and still less where to find the thing 
they seek. Servants grow disorderly, chil- 

| dren teasing or frightened, the husband is 


eee 


—-| 


angry, and sharp words pass between him 
and his wife. Accidents, of course, occur, 
for which the innocent are blamed. ‘Time— 
pitiless time rolls on, apparently with accele- 
rating speed. The distant sound of carriage- 
wheels is heard. At this crisis a string breaks. 
Why did it never break before? A flash of 
absolute passion distorts the face of the ma- 
tron. All dignity islost. The carriage is at the 
door—little children stretch forth their arms 
—there is no time for tenderness. Scarce- 
ly a farewell is heard, as the mother rushes 
past them, leaving behind her, perhaps for 
months of absence, the remembrance of her 
angry countenance, her unjust reproaches, 
and the apparent want of affection with which 
she could hurry away from the very beings 
she loved best in the world. The servants || ™ 
in such a family as this, can scarcely be blam- 

ed if they rejoice when their mistress is gone ; 

the husband, if he finds abundant consolation 

in the peace his absent partner has bequeathed 

him ; or the children, if they fail to look with 

any very eager expectation to the time of 
their mother’s return. 

How, then, does the law of love operate 
here? It operates upon the woman who is 
seldom too late, so that when a journey is in 
expectation, all things are arranged in due | 

| 


time, leaving the last day more especially for 


attention to the claims of affection, and the 
regulation of household affairs, upon which 
will depend the comfort of her family during 
herabsence. Rising a little earlier than usual || 
on that morning, she commends them indivi- | 
dually and collectively to the care of the Fa- |; 
ther of all the families of earth; and this very || 
act gives a depth, a tenderness, and a se- 

renity to the feelings of affection with which 

she meets them, it may be for the last time. 

Kind words are then spoken, which dwell 

upon the memory in after years; provision | 
is made for the feeble or the helpless; every 
little peculiarity of character or constitution 
is taken into account; last charges—those 
precious memorials of earthly love—are given, 
and treasured up. There is time even for |! 
private and confidential intercourse between | 
the husband and the wife; there is time for } 


i) 


een 


i el 


a 


| 20 


ja respectful farewell to every domestic; there 
| is time, too, for an expression of thankfulness 
for each one of the many kind offices render- 
| ed on that sacred day. At last the moment 
| of separation arrives. Silent tears are seen 
in every eye, but they are not absolutely tears 
of sorrow; for who can feel sorrow, when 
| the cup of human love is so full of sweet- 
ness ? 

If, during the absence of such a mother, 

sickness or death should assail any member 
of her family, how will the remembrance of 
| that day of separation soothe the absent ; 
while the kind words then uttered, the kind 
thoughts then felt, the kind services then 
rendered, will recur to remembrance, invest- 
ed with a power and a beauty, which never 
would have been fully known, had no such 
| separation taken place. 
It is possible the natural affection of the 
| wife and the mother, in both these cases, 
| may have been the same; yet, how different 
| must be the state of their own feelings, and 
| of those of their separate families, one hour 
after their departure ! and not during that 
hour only, but during weeks and months, 
nay, through the whole of their lives! for 
| the specimen we have given, is but one 
| among the many painful scenes which must 
perpetually occur in the experience of those 
who are habitually too late. 

It is true, I have extended the picture a 
little beyond the season of early youth, but 
this was absolutely necessary in order to 
point out the bearing and ultimate tendency 
of this dangerous habit—a habit, like many 
| of our wrong. propensities, so insidious 
| in its nature, as scarcely to tell upon the 
youthful character ; while, like many other 
plants of evil growth, its seed. is sown at that 
period of life, though we scarcely perceive 
| the real nature of the poisonous tree, until 
its bitter root has struck too deep to be 
| eradicated. It is, therefore, the more im- 
| portant, in all we purpose, and in all we do, 
| that we should: look to the end, and not 
| awake, when it is too late, to find that we 
| have miscalculated either our time or our 

means. 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER IIL. 


CLEVERNESS——LEARNING——-KNOWLEDGE. 


In order to speak with more precision of 
those attainments which youth is the season | 
for acquiring, I must class them under three 
different heads—cleverness, learning, and 
knowledge. By cleverness, I would be un- 
stood to mean, dexterity and aptness in doing 
every thing which falls within the sphere of 
ordinary duty. Cleverness of the hand. is 
no mean attainment in a woman. It is, in | 
fact, of almost as much value to her, as dex- | 
terity to the surgeon; for though he may || 
have knowledge to understand what is best || 
to be done, unless his hand be skilful to do it, | 
his knowledge will avail him but little in any | 
case of emergency, where the life of a fellow- | 
creature is at stake. 

The cleverness of the hand, therefore, |: 
though almost entirely neglected in modern 
education, except as relates to practice on the | 
keys of the piano, is a qualification which, | 
while it takes nothing away from the charm |} 
of feminine delicacy, imparts the additional || 
charm of perpetual cheerfulness, added to a | 
capability of general usefulness, and a conse- 
quent readiness for action whenever occasion 
may require our services. 

To know how to do every thing which can | 
properly come within a woman’s sphere of | 
duty, ought to be the ambition of every female || 
mind. or my own part, I do not believe I | 
have ever learned any thing, even down to | 
such a trifle as a new stitch, but I have 
found a use for it, and that in a surprisingly |! 
short space of time; for either it has occu- 
pied what would otherwise have been idle |} 
time, it has used up what would otherwise |} 
have been wasted material, or I have taught |} 
it to others who were more in need of it than | 
myself. Besides which, there is the grand 
preventive this dexterity supplies against |) 
ever being at a loss what to do; the happi- || 
ness it affords, both to ourselves and others, |; 
to be perpetually employed ; the calm it dif- |; 
fuses over a naturally restless temperament ;. |} 


but above all, the ability this habit affords in || 
cases of sickness, or other emergency, to |} 


turn all our means to account in the service 
of our friends. * 

This, however, can never be so thoroughly 
effected, as when the cleverness of the hand 
is aided by the faculty of invention. And 
here I would ask, how is it, how can it be, 
that the exercise of this faculty forms so tri- 
fling a part of female education? Never 
does a woman enter upon the actual business 
of life, whatever it may be, but her ingenuity 
is-taxed in some way or other; and she suf- 
fers blame, or endures contempt, just so far 
as she fails in this respect. If, at a critical 
juncture of time, any accident takes place in 
household affairs, woman is expected to 
cover up the defect, or supply the deficiency. 
If any article of common use is missing when 
wanted, woman is expected to provide a 
substitute. If the accustomed supply of 
comfort or enjoyment fails, it is woman’s 
fault. No matter how great the deficiency 
of material with which she has to work, do, 
mestic comfort, order, and respectability rest 
with her, and she must be accountable for 
the falling short in any, or all of these.” It is 
true that she is endowed by nature with the 
faculty of invention, in a higher degree, per- 
haps, than men, and skilfully and nobly does 
she sometimes use it ; but does not the very 
fact of this endowment teach us that it has 
thus been provided by Providence for the 
part she has to act in life? and ought we not 
the more sedulously to carry out this merci- 
ful design, by a higher cultivation of so useful 
a faculty? Why, for instance, should we 
not have premiums on a small scale, or other 
encouragements, in our public seminaries, for 
the most ingenious and useful inventions? 
Why should there not be a little museum at- 
tached to every school, in which such speci- 
} mens of ingenuity could be kept? We all 
know there are few simple pleasures which 
surpass those derived from the exercise of 
the faculty of invention ; might it not, there- 
fore, be rendered as profitable as it is amu- 
sing, by filling up some of the idle hours of 
a school-girl’s life, and occupying the time 
too frequently appropriated to mere gossip 
on subjects by no means calculated to im- 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 


21 


prove the morals, or enlarge the understand- 
ing ? 

The little girl of four years old, seated on 
a footstool beside her mother, is less happy 
in the rosy cheeks and shining curls of her 
new doll, than in the shawl she has herself 
invented for it, or the bonnet her sister is 
making. It is the same throughout the 
whole season of early youth. What is draw- 
ing, that most delightful of all amusements to 
a child, but the exercise of the faculty of in- 
vention? Sosoon as this exercise is reduced 
to a science,—so soon as “perspective 
dawns,” and the juvenile performer is com- 
pelled to copy, the charm of the performance 
in a great measure ceases. It is true, it will 
be restored a hundredfold. when acquaint- 
ance with the rules of art shall enable the 
young student again to design, and with bet- 
ter effect ; but during her infancy, she has 
far more enjoyment in her own red-brick 
house, with a volume of green smoke issuing 
from every chimney—and in her own round- 
bodied man, whose nose is emulous of a 
beak, and his eye in the centre of his head — 
than in the most elaborate and finished draw- 
ings which a master could lay before her ; 
not, certainly, because she sees more sym- 
metry or likelihood in these creatures of her 
own formation, but simply because of the 
pleasure she enjoyed while inventing them. 

It is a subject of delightful reflection, and it 
ought to be a source of unfailing gratitude, 
that some of those natural propensities which 
afford us the greatest pleasure, are, in reality, 
capable of being made conducive to the 
greatest good. Thus, when the little quiet 
girl is so happy and so busy with her pencils, 
or her scissors, she is indulging that natural 
propensity of her mind, which is, in after life, 
to render her still happier, by enabling her to 
turn to the best account every means of in- 
creasing the happiness of those around her, 
of rendering assistance in any social or do- 
mestic calamity that may occur, of supply in 
every time of household need, and of com- 
fort in every season of distress. 

But if the value of invention, and the 
ready application of existing means, be over- 


| 22 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


| looked under all other circumstances in a | cupied by a series of inventions for the bene- 


| sick-room, none can doubt its efficacy. The 
ll visitations of sickness, however unlikely or 
unlooked for they may be to the young, are 
liable to all—the gay and the grave, the rich 
and the poor, the vigorous and the feeble ; 
and we have only to visit some of those fa- 
vorite spots of earth which have become the 
resort of invalids from every land, to see 
how often the most delicate females are 
plunged into all the solemn and_ sacred 
mysteries of the chamber of sickness and 
death. 

It is under such circumstances that inge- 
nuity, when connected with kindly feeling, 
and readiness to assist, is of the utmost pos- 
sible value. There may be the same kind 
feeling without it; but how is such feeling to 
operate ?—by teasing the invalid perpetually 
about what he would like, or not like? The 
querulous and fretful state of mind which 
suffering so often induces, is ill-calculated to 
brook this minute investigation of its wants 
and wishes ; and such is the capricious na- 
ture of a sickly appetite, that every antici- 
pated relish is apt to pall, before the feeble 
desire can be gratified. We are therefore in- 
flicting positive pain upon the sufferer—men- 
tal pain, in addition to that of the body, by 
compelling him to choose, and then to appear 
discontented, or ungrateful, in becoming dis- 
satisfied with his own choice. 

How thankful, then, ought women to be, 
that they possess, by nature, the faculty of 
invention ; and how careful ought to be their 
cultivation of this precious gift, when it can 
enable them to relieve from pain and annoy- 
| ance those who already feel that they have 
enough of both! How happy, in comparison, 
is that woman, who, by the habitual exercise 
of her ingenuity, is able so to make the most 
of the means within her power, as to supply, 
without its having to be solicited, the very 
thing which is most needed ; and though her 
endeavors may possibly fail again and again, 
there will sometimes be a smile of grateful 
| acknowledgment on the lips of the sufferer, 
that will richly repay her most anxious care ; 
or; if not, she will still be happier, when oc- 


ae 


-~ 


fit of one she loves, than those can be who 
think, and think again, and end by only 
wishing they could think of any thing that 
could accommmodate or relieve. : 

The faculty of invention, however, will 
fail of more than half its use, if the hand is 
not early accustomed to obey the head, in all 
those little niceties of management which fe- 
male occupations require. ‘There must be a | 
facility in the application and movement of 
the hand, which can only be acquired in 
early life; and I would humbly suggest the 
importance of this in our public seminaries 
for young ladies, for I confess it has often 
seemed to me a little hard, that young wo- 
men of the middle ranks of life, should be 


dismissed from these establishments, after |] 


having spent years with little more exercise 
of the hand than is required by the music- 
master ; yet are they no sooner plunged into | 
active life,as women—I do not say, as la- | 
dies—than the readiest and best, nay, some- 
times, even the cheapest, method of doing | 
every thing which a woman can do, is ex- 
pected of them. In all those cases of failure | 
which must necessarily ensue, parents and | 
brothers are equally dissatisfied; while they | 
themselves, disappointed that their accom- | 
plishments are no longer valued as they were | 
at school, and perplexed with the new, and | 
apparently humbling duties which present ! 
themselves, sink into a state of profitless de- || 
spondency ; and all this is owing to the sim- | 
ple fact of their not having been prepared, | 
when young, for what is expected of them in | 
after life. 
Far be it from me, however, to advocate | 
the old system of stitching, as the best kind | 
of education for the daughters of England, | 
of whom higher. and nobler things are re- } 
quired. But why should we not choose the | 
medium between two extremes? and while | 
we reprobate the elaborate needlework of our | 
grandmothers, why should we not be equally | 
solicitous to avoid the evils arising from an | 
entire disuse of the female hand, until the | 
age of womanhood? Neither would I be | 
supposed to advocate that entire absorption | 


of the female mind in a world of worsted 
work, which is now so frequently the case 
immediately on leaving school, and which I 
+ am inclined to attribute, in a great measure, 
| to a necessary reaction of the mind, after 
| having been occupied during the whole term 
of scholastic discipline, in what is so foreign 
| to its nature, that the first days—nay, months, 
|| and even years, of liberty, are spent in the 
| busy idleness of assorting different shades of 
| Berlin wool. 
| These, I must allow, are pleasant amuse- 
| ments in their way, and when the head and 
|| the heart are weary, may have their refresh- 
| ment and their use ; but even in these occu- 
| pations, the beaten track of custom is. too 
| much followed. The hand is more exercised 
| than the head. To imitate is more the ob- 
|| ject than to invent, while, if the same pains 
| were taken to create a pattern as to borrow 
one, new ideas might be perpetually struck 
out, and the mind, even in this humble 
sphere of action, might find as much em- 
| ployment as the hand. 
It is sometimes made the subject of regret 
| by learned, well-informed, and highly-gifted 
women, that the occupations peculiar to our 
sex are so trifling; or, in other words, that 
they afford so little exercise for the mind. 

To say nothing here of the folly and the 
| danger of allowing ourselves to despise such 
duties as God has set before us, I am dis- 
posed to question whether it is not in a great 
measure our own fault that these duties are in- 
vested with so little mind. Invention issurely 
no mean ‘faculty, and I have shown how it 
may be exercised, even upon the most tri- 
fling affairs of woman’s life. Economy is no 
mean principle, and this may be acted upon 
in the application of the humblest means to 
any particular end. Industry is no mean 
virtue, and we may be practising this, while 
filling up every spare moment with some oc- 
cupation of the hand. Cheerfulness is no 
mean embellishment to the female character; 
and seldom is. cheerfulness preserved, when 
the hand is allowed to be useless and idle. 

I confess there is a listless way of merely 
“getting through” with female occupations, 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 23 


comfort, at the least expense ! 


in which little mind, and still less good feeling, 
is called into action: but when a lively in- 
vention is perpetually at work; when a care- 
ful economy is practised for the sake of mak- 
ing the most of all our materials, and sparing 
our money, it may be for the purpose of as- 
sisting the sorrowful or the destitute. Where || 
habits of industry are thus engrafted into 
the character; and where cheerfulness lights 


up every countenance ina family thus em- 
ployed; especially where there is any con- 
( 


siderable degree of talent or illumination of 
mind, how many brilliant thoughts may arise 
out of the simplest subject, and how much 
rational enjoyment may be derived from the 
humblest occupations ! 

I cannot dismiss the subject of cleverness, 
or dexterity in doing whatever may come 


within the sphere of female duty, without 


observing that its importance refers in an 
especial manner to domestic usefulness. Nor 
let the young lady, who may read this, too 
hastily turn away with contempt from so 
humble a strain of advice. It does not fol- 
low, because she knows how to do every 
thing, that she must always do it. But it 
does follow, that if she wishes to stand at the 
head of her household, to be respected by her 
own servants, and to feel herself the mistress 
of her own affairs, that she must be acquainted 
with the best method of doing every thing 
upon which domestic comfort depends. 
These remarks can of course have no ref- 
erence to families who occupy a higher rank 
in society, and whose means enable them to 
employ a housekeeper as the medium of 
communication between the mistress and the 
servants. I speak of those who have to give 
orders themselves, or who, in cases of illness, 
receiving company, or other derangements 
of the usual routine of domestic affairs, have 
to take an active part in household economy 
themselves. To such, how unfortunate is it not 
to have learned, before they attempt to direct 
others, the best method of applying every 
means so as to be productive of the greatest 
I would of 
course be understood to mean, with the least 
possible risk of absolute waste. Your table 


may be sumptuous or simple, your furniture 
costly or plain—that will depend upon the 
rate at which you fix your expenditure, and 
has nothing to do with the point in question. 
The absolute waste of material, in whatever 
is manufactured, prepared, or produced, Is 
an evil of a distinet nature, and can never be 
allowed to any extent, where it is possible to 
be avoided, without a deficiency of common 
sense, or moral rectitude. 

In my observations upon the women of 
England, I have dwelt so much upon the de- 
sirableness of domestic usefulness, that I can- 
not with propriety enlarge uponit here, Yet, 
such is my view of this subject, that if I were» 
asked which of the three was most valuable 
in a woman—cleverness, learning, or know- 
ledge; and supposing all to have an aqual 
accompaniment of good sense, good feeling, - 
and good principle, I believe I should answer 
in favor of the first, provided the situation of 
the woman was in the middle rank of life, 
and she could not enjoy more’than one of 
these valuable recommendations. 

Youth is considered to be so exclusively 
the season for acquiring a skilful touch in 
the practice of music, that scarcely is the ex- 
periment ever tried of acquiring the same 
dexterity in after life. If then it is the only 
time for attaining excellence in what is mere- 
ly an embellishment to the character, of how 
much importance must this season be for 
practising the hand in that ready obedience 
to the head in all affairs of actual usefulness, 
which justly entitles its possessor to the dis- 
tinction of cleverness ! 

In order to convey a more correct idea of 
my meaning, when I speak of cleverness, I 
will simply add, that a woman possessed of 


this qualification is seldom at a loss what to 


do; seldom gives wrong orders; seldom 
mistakes the right means of producing the 
end she desires; seldom spoils, or wastes, or 
mismanages the work she undertakes ; never 
hurries to and fro in a state of confusion, not 
knowing what is best to be done first; and 
never yields to her own feelings, so as to in- 
capacitate her from the service of others, at 
any critical moment when her assistance may 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


be most needed. Nor are her recommenda- 
tions only of a negative kind. Her habitual 
self-possession is a positive good, her cool- 
ness, her promptitude, her power to adapt 
herself to circumstances, all give worth and 
dignity to her character in the estimation of 
others ; while they afford peace and satisfac- 
tion to her own mind. 

Learnine, Dr. Johnson tells us, is skill in 
languages or science. With regard to the 
time spent in the acquisition of languages, I 
fear I must incur the risk of being thought 
neither liberal nor enlightened ; for I confess, 
I do not see the value of languages to a 
woman, except so far as they serve the pur- 
pose of conversation with persons of different 
countries, or acquaintance with the works of 
authors, whose essential excellences cannot 
be translated into our own tongue; and how 
far these two objects are carried out by the 
daughters of England, either from necessity 
or inclination, I must leave to their own con- 
sideration. 

With regard to the dead languages, the 
former of these two motives cannot apply. 
It may, however, be justly considered as a 
wholesome exercise of the mind, provided 
there is nothing better to be done, for young 
women to learn Greek and Latin; but be- 
yond this, I feel perfectly assured, that for 
any knowledge they will acquire through the 
medium of the best Greek and Latin authors, 
our most approved translations would more 
than answer their purpose. It is true, that 
a knowledge of these languages gives an in- 
sight into the meaning of many important 
words inour own; yet, an early and exten- 
sive reading of our standard books would 
unquestionably give the same, along with a 
greater fund of useful and practical informa- 
tion; and for every purpose of female elocu- 
tion, I strongly suspect that good Saxon- 
English would be found as clear, impressive, 
and convincing, as any which can boast a 
more classical construction. 

There is one motive assigned in the pre- 
sent day, for young ladies learning Greek, 
but especially Hebrew, which I should be 
sorry to treat with irreverence or disrespect, 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 


because it has weight with some of the most 
serious and estimable of their sex. I mean 
the plea of being thus enabled to read the 
Scriptures in the original. Now, if such 
_young ladies have really nothing better to 
do, or if from the high order of their natural 
capabilities they have a chance, even the re- 
motest, of being able to throw some addi- 
tional light upon our best translations, far be 
it from me to wish to put the slightest ob- 
stacle in their way. Yet, I own it does ap- 
pear to me a little strange, that after consider- 
ing the length of time required for attaining 
a sufficient knowledge of these languages, 


li} and the number of learned commentators 


and divines, who have spent the best part of 
their valuable lives, in laboring to ascertain 
the true meaning of the language of the 
Scriptures, and when the result of those la- 
bors is open to the public,—it does appear to 
me a little strange, that any young woman, 
of moderate abilities, should enter into the 
field with such competitors, in the hope of 
attaining a nearer approach to the truth than 
they have done; and I have been led to 
question, whether it would not be quite as 
well for such individuals to be content to 
take the Bible as it is, and to employ the ad- 
ditional time they would thus become pos- 
sessed of, in disseminating its truths and 
acting out its principles, so far as they have 
already been made clear to the humblest un- 
derstanding. ! 

These remarks, however, have especial 
reference to moderate abilities ; because there 
is with some persons a peculiar gift for the 
acquisition of languages; and believing, as 
I do, that no gift is bestowed in vain, I 
would not presume to question the propriety 
of such young persons spending at least some 
| portion of their lives, in endeavoring to ac- 
quire the power of doing foy themselves, 
what has already been done for them. 

It is a remarkable phenomenon in our na- 
ture, that some of those persons who: have 
the greatest facility in acquiring languages, 
have the least perception of the genius or 
spirit of such languages when they are ac- 
quired. The knowledge of many languages 


obtains for its possessor the distinction of 
being learned; but if she goes no further, if 
she never expatiates in the new world of 
literature, into which her knowledge might 
have introduced her; she is but like a curi- 
ous locksmith, who opens the door upon 
some hidden treasure, and who, instead of 
examining or appropriating the precious store 
to which he has cbtained access, goes on to 
another door, and then another, satisfied 
with merely being master of-the keys, and 
knowing how to unlock at his pleasure. 

To women of this class of mind, provided 
they belong to the middle rank of life, and 
are not intended either for teachers or trans- 
lators, of what possible use can be the learn- 
ing of the dead languages? and to others 
similarly circumstanced, but without this pe- 
culiar talent, there are excellent translations 
in almost every library, from which they will 
acquire a greater number of ideas, and be- 
come more intimately acquainted with the 
spirit of the writer, and the customs and the 
times of which he wrote, than it is probable 
they ever could have been from their own 
reading of the same works in the original. 

With regard to modern languages, the case 
is very different. Facilities of communica- 
tion between one country and another are 
now so great, that it has become no longer a 
dream of romance, but a matter of reasonable 
calculation, with our young women, even in 
the humble ranks of life, that they should. 
some time or other go abroad. With our 
modern writers, too, it is so much the custom 
to indulge in the use of at least three lan- 
guages, while professing to write in one, as 
to render it almost a necessary part of female 
education to learn both French and Italian. 
If these languages have not been sufficiently 
attended to at school, they may, therefore, 
with the utmost propriety, be added to such 
studies as it is desirable to continue for some 
years afterwards; and while their more per- 
fect acquisition is an object of laudable de- 
sire, the mind, as it expands in its progress. 
towards maturity, will be better able to ap- 
preciate the beauties they unfold. 

I have been compelled, during the course | 


a A TT 


. 
ae Ee 
TLIO 
ee 
Se ee 
= 


20 


of these remarks, to use an expression which 
requires some explanation. I have said, that 
a young woman may with propriety learn 
even the dead languages, provided she has 
nothing better to do; by which, I would be 
understood to mean, provided she does not 
consequently leave undone what would ren- 
der her more useful or amiable as a woman. 
The settlement of this question must depend 
entirely upon the degree of her talent, and 
ihe nature of her position in life. If she has 
no other talent likely to make her so useful 
as that which is employed in learning Greek, 
Latin, and Hebrew, this settles the point at 
once, or if she has no duties so important to 
her as to ascertain the derivation of words, 
or to study the peculiarities of heathen writers, 
then by all means let her be a learned lady, 
for every study, every occupation of mind, 
provided it does not include what is evil, 
must be preferable to absolute idleness. — 

But may we not turn to the consideration 
of science as opening a wide field of interest- 
ing study, which does more to enlarge the 
mind, and give right views of common things, 
than the mere acquisition of language? 

“Science !—what have we to do with sci- 
ence?” exclaim half a dozen soft voices at 
once. Certainly not to give public lectures, 
nor always to attend them, unless you go 
with your understanding prepared by some 
previous reading, or acquaintance with the 
subjects, which in the lecture-room are neces- 
sarily rather illustrated, than fully explained. 
Neither is it necessary that you should sacri- 
fice any portion of your feminine delicacy by 
diving too deep, or approaching too near the 
professor’s chair. A slight knowledge of 
science in general is all which is here recom- 


| mended, so far as it may serve to obviate 


some of those groundless and irrational fears, 
which arise out of mistaken apprehensions 
of the phenomena of nature and art; but, 
above all, to enlarge our views of the great 
and glorious attributes of the Creator, as ex- 


hibited in the most sublime, as well as the | 


most insignificant, works of his creation. 
Perhaps one of the lowest advantages, and 


I am far from thinking it a low one either, 


Nee 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


which is derived by women from a general | 


t 
i 


knowledge of science, is, that it renders them | 


more companionable to men. 
solicitous to charm the nobler sex by their 


If they are | 


appearance, dress, and manners. surely it is 4] 
of more importance to interest them by their | 


conversation. By the former they may please; 


by the latter they may influence, and that to |, 


the end of their lives. i 
ble to interest by their conversation, without 


Yet, how is it possi- : 


some understanding of the subjects which | 


chiefly occupy the minds of men? 


Most |. 


kindly, however, has it been accorded by | 
man to his feeble sister, that it should not be | 
necessary for her to talk much, even on his | 


favorite topics, in order to obtain his favor. 


An attentive listener is generally all that he | 
requires ; but in order to listen attentively, | 
and with real interest, it is highly important 


that we should have considerable under- 


standing of the subject discussed; for the || 
interruption of a single foolish or irrelevant | 


question, the evidence of a wandering thought, 
the constrained attitude of attention, or the 
rapid response which conveys uo proof of 
having received an idea, are each sufficient 
to break the charm, and destroy the satisfac- 
tion which most men feel in conversing with 
really intelligent women. 

It is also worth some attention to this sub- 
ject, if we can thereby dispel many of the 
idle fears which occupy and perplex the 
female mind. I have known women who 
were quite as much afraid of a gun when it 
was not loaded, as when it was; others who 
thought a steam-engine as likely to explode 
when it was not working, as when it was; 
and others still, who avowedly considered 
thunder more dahgerous than lightning. 
Now, to say nothing of the irritation which 
fears like these are apt to occasion in minds 
of a more masculine order, it is surely no in- 
significant attaimment to acquire a habit of 
feeling at ease, when there is really nothing 
to be afraid of. 

But, far beyond this, the use of science is 
to teach us not to 

“ Wrong thee, mighty Nature! 
With whom adversity is but transition ; 
a, 


uss: — insbbdeesie lr a 


cecal | 


and higher still, to teach us how the wisdom 
and goodness of God pervade all creation. 
Women are too much accustomed to look at 
the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms 
with eyes that may almost literally be said 
not to see. An insect is to them a little 
troublesome thing, which flies or creeps; a 
flower is a petty ornament, with a sweet per- 
fume; and a mine of coal or copper, some- 
thing which they read about in their geog- 
raphy, as belonging to Newcastle or Wales. 
I do not say that their actual knowledge is 
| thus limited; but that they are too much in 
the habit of regarding these portions of the 
creation as such, and no more. 

Chemistry, too, is apt to be considered by 
young women as far too elaborate and mas- 
culine a study to engage their attention ; and 
thus they are satisfied, not only to go on 
through life unacquainted with those won- 
derful combinations and properties, which in 
some of the most familiar things would throw 
light upon their real nature, and proper use ; 
but also to remain unenlightened in that no- 
blest school of knowledge, which teaches the 
sublime truth, that the wonder-working power 
of God has been employed upon all the fa- 
miliar, as well as the astonishing objects we 
| perceive ; and that the same power continues 
to be exemplified in their perpetual creation, 
their order, adaptation, and use. 

Chiefly, however, would I recommend to 
the attention of youth, an intimate acquaint- 
ance with the nature and habits of the ani- 
mal world. Here we may find a source of 
rational and delightful interest, which can 
never fail us, so long as a bird is heard to 
sing upon the trees, or a butterfly is seen to 
sport among the flowers. 3 

I will not go the length of recommending 
to my young countrywomen to become col- 
lectors, either of animals or of insects; be- 
cause, as in the case of translations from the 
best of ancient writers, this has already been 
done for them, better than they are likely to 
do it for themselves; and because I am not 
| quite sure, that simply for our own amuse- 
|| ment, and without any reference to serving 
the purpose of science, we have a right to 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 


ETE Pe Seek eS A MRINRS DION een A IY A B ST hte arto Sp TOE eR RR CONT 


re 


ee 


27 


make even a beetle struggle to death upon 
the point of a pin, or to crowd together boxes 


| full of living creatures, who, in the agony of 


their pent-up sufferings, devour and destroy 
one another. 

Happily for us, there are ably written 
books on these subjects, from which we can 
learn more than from our own observation ; 
and museums accessible to all, where differ- 


{ 


ent specimens of insects, ard other animals, | 


are so arranged as materially to assist in un- 
derstanding their nature and classification ; 
and far more congenial it surely must be to 
the heart and mind of. woman, to read all 


| which able and enlightened men have told 


us of this world of wonder, and then to go 
forth into the fields, and see the busy and 
beautiful creatures by which it is inhabited, 
sporting in the joyous freedom of nature, un- 
harmed, and unsuspicious of harm. Yes, 
there is an acquaintance with the animal cre- 
ation, which might be cultivated, so as to do 
good to the heart, both of the child and the 
philosopher—an acquaintance which seems 
to absolve these helpless creatures from the 
curse of estrangement from their sovereign 
man—an acquaintance which brings them 
near to us in all their natural peculiarities, 
their amazing instincts, and in the voiceless, 
and otherwise unintelligible secrets of their 
mysterious existence. . 

And it is good to be thus acquainted with 
that portion of creation which acknowledges, 
in common with ourselves, the great princi- 
ple of animal life, to know that enjoyment is 
enjoyment, and that pain is pain, to myriads 
and myriads of beings, in some respects more 
beautiful, in others more curious, and in all 
more innocent, than ourselves. It is good to 
know, so far as men can know, for what pur- 
pose Almighty power has created them. Itis 


| good to behold their beauty, to understand 


their wonderful formation, and to examine 
the fairy fancy-work of some of their sacred 
little homes. It is good to be acquainted 
with the strength of the mother’s love, when 
she stoops her wing to the spoiler, and offers 
her own life to save her tender brood. It is 
good to know that the laws of nature, in 


beni a 
rr S 


28 


their filial and parental influences, cannot be 
violated without sorrow as intense, though 
not as lasting, as that which tortures the hu- 
man heart on the separation of parent and 
child. It is good to know how these crea- 
tures, placed by Divine wisdom under the 
power and dominion of man, are made to 
suffer or to die when he neglects or abuses 
them. 

The earth and the air, the woods and the 
streams, the gardens and the fields, tell us of 
all this. When we sit under the shade of a 
lofty tree, in the stillness of summer’s balmy 
noon, the note of the wood pigeon salutes us 
from above. We look up, and the happy 
couple are nestling on a bough, as closely, 
side by side, as if the whole world to them 
was nothing, so long as their faithful love 
was left. On a lower branch of the same 
tree, or on a broken rail close by, the little 
robin sits and sings, looking occasionally 
askance into the face of that lordly crea- 
ture whom instinct teaches him to shun. 
Yet is :t iess a reproachful, than an inquir- 
ing glance, as if he would ask, whether you 
could really wish to frighten him with all the 
terrors which agitate his little breast on your 
approach. And then he sings to you again, 
a low soft warble; though his voice is never 
quite so sweet as in the autumn, when other 
birds are silent, and he still sings on amidst 
the falling leaves and faded flowers. Next, 
the butterfly comes wavering into sight, yet 
hastening on to turn its golden wings once 
more up to the sunshine. The bee then hur- 
ries past, intent upon its labors, and attracted 
only for a moment by the nosegay in your 
hand; while the grasshopper, that master of 
ventriloquism, invites your curiosity—now 
here, now there, but never to the spot where 
his real presence is to be found. And all 
this while, the faithful dog is at your feet. If 
you rise, at the same moment he rises too; 
and if you sit down, he also composes him- 
self to rest. Liver ready to go, or stay, he 
watches your slightest movement; and so 
closely and mysteriously is his being absorb- 
ed in yours, that, although a ramble in the 
| fields affords him a perfect ecstasy of delight, 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


— ee 


he never allows himself this indulgence, with- 
out your countenance and companionship. 

But it is impossible so much as to name 
one in a thousand of the sweet and cheering 
influences of animal life upon the youthful 
heart. ‘The very atmosphere we live in 
teems with it; the woods are vocal—the 
groves are filled with it; while around our 
doors, within our homes, and even at our 
social hearth, the unfailing welcome, the tran- 
sient glimpses of intelligence, the instinct, the 
love of these creatures, are interwoven with 
the vast chain of sympathy, which, through 
the whole of what may be a wandering and 
uncertain life, binds us to that spot of earth 
where we first awoke to a feeling of compan- 
ionship with this portion of the creatures of 
our heavenly Father’s care. 

Nor must we forget the wonderful and 
mysterious affection which some animals are 
capable of feeling for man. Often as we 
may have failed to inspire the love we have 
sought for among our fellow-creatures, we 
are all capable of inspiring attachment here ; 
nor does the fact of our being unattractive, 
or comparatively worthless among mankind, 
operate in the slightest degree to our disad- 
vantage with this class of beings. Witness 
the outcast from society—the wanderer on 
the public roads—the poor and_ houseless 
mendicant; he still has his dog—yes, and he 
bears the cold repulse he meets with when 
he asks for bread, better than he could bear 
the desertion of that faithful animal: but he 
fears it not. The proud may pass him by 
unheeded, the rich may spurn him from their 
doors, the vulgar and the unfeeling may 
make a mockery of his rags and wretched- 
ness; but when the stormy night comes on, 
and he seeks the almost roofless shed to rest 
his weary limbs, he is followed even there by 
one friend, who creeps beside him with a 
love as watchful and as true as if he shared 
the silken couch of luxury and ease. 

There are little motherless children, too, 
and others not unacquainted with a feeling 
of almost orphan solitude, who have felt, at 
times, how the affection of a dumb animal 
could supply the disappointed yearnings of a 


i 
{ 


ed 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 


young warm heart. In after life, we may 
learn to look upon these creatures with re- 
spect, because our heavenly Father has 
thought them worthy of his care; but youth 
is the season when we love them for their 
own sakes; and because we then discover 
that they can be made, by kindness, to love 
us. In youth alone can we feel to unite them 
with ourselves in that bond of sympathy, 
which will never afterwards allow us to treat 
their sufferings with indifference, or to regard 
their happiness as beyond the sphere of our 
duty to promote. 

Here, then, the law of love is made to 
operate through innumerable channels of 
sweet and natural feeling, extending over a 
wide field of creation, and reaping its reward 
of satisfaction wherever a poor animal is res- 
cued from oppression, hunger, or pain. 

The study of natural history is, perhaps, 
the most congenial pursuit to which the mind 
of youth can be introduced ; and it never can 
begin with this too soon. The history and 
nature of plants is the next most pleasing 
study—though far inferior to the first, for 
this important reason: our acquaintance 
with animals involves a moral feeling,—and 


not one feeling only, but a vast chain of sym- 


pathies and affections, which, if not touched 
in early life, are seldom afterwards called 
forth with any degree of earnestness or 
warmth; and for a woman to be insensible 
or indifferent to the happiness of the brute 
creation, is an idea too repulsive to be dwelt 
upon for a moment. ; 

There is, however, a sickly sensibility in- 
dulged in by some young ladies, which I 
should be the last to recommend. Many, for 
instance, will nurse and fondle animals, with- 
out ever taking the trouble to feed them. 
Others shrink away with loathing. at the 
sight of pain, which, if they would but exert 
themselves to remove, might easily be reme- 
died. J remember a young girl with whom 
I was well acquainted, having watched a cat 


torment a mouse until she could bear it no 
| longer, when at last, with a feeling of the ut- 
| most repugnance to the act, she snatched up 
| the poor lacerated mouse, and killed it in a 


moment. On seeing her do this, two very 
delicate and estimable young ledies gave 
themselves up to shrieks and hysterics, al- 
though they had known for the previous 
half hour that the little helpless animal had 
been enduring the most cruel torture in the 
claws of the cat, and they had borne this 
knowledge with the greatest composure. 

It is not, then, a delicate shrinking from 
the mere sight of pain, which constitutes that 
kindly feeling towards the animal creation, 
that forms so estimable a part. of the female 
character ; but that expansive sentiment of 
benevolence towards all the creatures of 
God’s formation, which is founded on the 
principle of love, and which operates as a 
principle in prompting us to promote the 
good of all creatures that have life, and to 
promote it on the widest possible scale. 

But to return to the subject of botany. A 
woman who does not love flowers, suffers a 
great want in her supplies of healthy and 
natural enjoyment. How could the poet 
Milton, when he pictured woman in her 
highest state of excellence, have employed 
our mother Eve, had he made her indifferent 
to the beauty of the plants of paradise, or 
negligent of the flowers which bloomed 
around her? Still, I must acknowledge that 
there is, to many minds, something the re- 
verse of attractive in the first aspect of the 
study of botany, as it is generally presented 
to our attention. In this 1am supported by 
one of the most gifted of modern authors, 
when he speaks of the “ ponderous nomen- 
clature”’ of botany having frightened many a 
youthful student back from the portals of this 
study. There are many persons now ad- 
vanced in life, who deeply regret their want 
of what is called a taste for botany, when the 
fault has not been in their natural taste, so 
much as in the form under which this study 


was introduced to their notice in youth ; and | 


thus they have been shut out through the . 


whole of life, from the pleasure of expatia- || 


ting in a field, as boundless in its extent as 


inexhaustible in its attractions. 


These difficulties, however, are not insur- | 


‘mountable to all; and youth is unquestiona- | 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


bly the season for forming an intimate ac- 
quaintance with this, the loveliest aspect of 
nature ; so that’in after life, when duties are 
more imperative, and occupations more seri- 
ous, and there is consequently less time for 
minute investigation, every flower and every 
plant may be met as a member of a well- 
known family, and, as such, bear somewhat 
of the character of a familiar friend. 

It is the same with every part of the crea- 
tion, whether natural history, or botany, or 
geology, have occupied our attention, or 
chemistry, or electricity, that great mystery 
of the visible world, whose all-powerful 
agency, the most sublime as well as the most 
insignificant phenomena of nature are daily 
and hourly tending to develop,—an early 
and intimate acquaintance with each and all 
of these, must so far enlighten and enlarge 
the mind, as to. lead eur thoughts beyond the 
narrow limits of material existence, up to that 
higher region of wonder and of love, where 
to behold is to admire—to feel is to adore. 

From the consideration of the different ad- 
vantages arising from such studies as it is 
important should be pursued at an early pe- 
riod of life, we are necessarily led to ask, 
“What is the use of KNowLEDGE in gener- 
al?” 

Nothing can well be more vague than the 
notions popularly entertained of the meaning 
of knowledge. Dr. Johnson has called it 
“general illumination of mind.” But, if I 
might be allowed to do so, I should prefer 
restricting my use of the word knowledge, to 
that. acquaintance with facts, which, in con- 
nection with the proper exercise of a healthy 
mind, will necessarily lead to general illumi- 
nation. A knowledge of the world, there- 
fore, as I propose to use the expression, 
must consequently mean, a knowledge of 
such facts as the general habits of society 
| develop. 

This is universally allowed to be a dan- 
gerous knowledge, beause it cannot be ac- 
quired without the risk of being frequently 
deceived by the false aspect which society 
assumes, and the still greater risk of having 
our moral being too deeply absorbed in the 


interest and excitement which the study 
itself affords. No one can obtain a know- 
ledge of the world, by being a mere specta- 
tor. It is, therefore, safer and happier to 
leave this study until the judgment is more 
matured, and the habits and principles more 
formed ; or rather I should say, to leave it as 
a study altogether. Time and experience 
teach us all it is necessary to know on this 
subject; and even duty urges us forward on 
the theatre of life, when little enough pre- 
pared for the temptations and the conflicts 
we must there encounter. By absolute ne- 
cessity, then, we acquire as much knowledge 
of the world as any rational being needs de- 
sire, and that is just sufficient to enable us to 
judge of the consequences of certain princi- 
ples, or modes of action, as they operate 
upon the well-being of individuals, and of 
society at large. Destitute of this degree of 
worldly knowledge, we must ever be liable to 
make the most serious mistakes in applying 
the principle of benevolence, in forming: our 
estimate of the moral condition of mankind, 
as well as in regulating our scale of social 
and relative duty. 

A general knowledge of the political and. 


‘social state of the country in which we live, 


and indeed of all countries, is of great impor- 
tance, not only to men, but to women. Nor 
let my fair readers be startled when I speak 
of the political state of countries. You have 
been accustomed to make history your study. 
An acquaintance with the most important 
eras in history is considered an essential part 
of a female education. And can it be less 
essential to know what events are taking 
place in your own times, than what trans- 
pired in past ages? “Do not, however, mis- 
understand me on this important subject. 
Do not suppose it would add any embellish- 
ment to your conversation, for you to discuss 
what are called politics, simply as such, es- 
pecially when, as in nine cases out of ten, }! 
you do not really understand what you are 
talking about. Do not take up any question 
as belonging to your side, or your party, 
while ignorant what the principles of that 
party are. Above all, do not allow yourself 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 


to grow warm in your advocacy of any par- 
ticular candidate for a seat in parliament, be- 
cause he is a handsome man or has made a 
fine speech. All this may supply an oppo- 
site party with food for scandal, orggor jest, 
but has nothing at all to do with that patri- 
otic and deep feeling of interest in the happi- 
ness and prosperity of her own country, 
which a benevolent and enlightened woman 
must naturally entertain. 

Destitute as some women are of every 
spark of this feeling, it is but natural that 
their conversation should at times be both 
trifling and vapid; and that when subjects 
of general importance are discussed, they 
should be too much occupied with a pattern 
of worsted work, even to listen. 

I one day heard a very accomplished and 
amiable young lady lamenting that she had 
nothing to talk about, except a subject which 
had been playfully forbidden. “ Talk about 
the probability of 2 war,” said I. “ Why 
should J talk abou’ thet?’ she replied. “It 
is nothing to me whether there is war or not.” 
Now, this was said in perfect sincerity, and 
yet the lady was a Christian woman, and one 
who would have been very sorry to be sus- 
pected of not knowing the dates of most of 
the great battles recorded in history. 

I am perfectly aware that there are intri- 
cate questions, brought before our senate, 
which it may require a masculine order of 
intellect fully to understand. But there are 
others which may, and ought to engage the 
attention of every female mind, such as the 
extinction of slavery, the abolition of war in 
general, cruelty to animals, the punishment 
.of death, temperance, and many more, on 
which, neither to know, nor to feel, is almost 
equally disgraceful. 

I must again observe, it is.by no means 
necessary that we should éal/k much on these 
subjects, even if we do understand them ; 
but to listen attentively, and with real interest 
when they are discussed by able and liberal- 
minded men, is an easy and agreeable method 
| of enlarging our stock of valuable knowledge ; 
and, by doing this when we are young, we 
shall go on with the tide of public events, so 


ol 


as to render ourselves intelligent companions 
in old age; and when the bloom of youth is 
gone, and even animal spirits decline, we 
shall have our conversation left, for the en- 
tertainment and the benefit of our friends. 
For my own part, I know of no interest 
more absorbing, than that with which we 
listen to a venerable narrator of by-gone facts 
—facts which have transpired under the ac- 


tual observation of the speaker, in which he 


took a part, or which stirred the lives, and 
influenced the conduct, of those by whom he 
was surrounded. When such a person has 
been a lover of sterling truth, and a close ob- 
server of things as they really were in early 
youth, his conversation is such as sages listen 
to, and historians make the theme of their 
imperishable pages. Yet, such a companion 


every woman is capable of becoming; and. 


since old age is not rich in its attractions, is 
it not well worthy the attention of youth, to 
endeavor tolay up, as a provision for the fu- 
ture, such sterling materials for rational and 
lasting interest? 

It is worthy of observation, however, that 
such information can never be of half the 
value when collected in a vague and indefi- 
nite form. The lover of sterling truth alone 
is able to render the relation of facts of any 
real value. The mere story-teller, who paints 
the truth in his own colors, may amuse for 
an evening; but unless we choose truth— 
absolute truth, as our companion in early life, 
the foundation of our opinions, as well as of 
our principles, will be ever liable to give way. 
We must, therefore, cultivate a willingness 
to see things as they really are. Not as our 
friends do, or as our enemies do not see 
them; but simply as they are, and, as such, 
to speak of them, without the bias of party 
feeling, or the coloring of our own selfishness. 

The local customs of the place in which 
we live, and the habits of thinking of the 
persons with whom we associate, will natural- 
ly, in the course of time, produce considera- 
ble effect upon our own views. But in youth, 
the mind is free to choose, open to conviction, 
uninfluenced by prejudice, and comparative- 
ly unoccupied by previous impressions. It 


Se eT 


= = - <= = += 


32 


is, therefore, of the utmost importance, in this 
early stage of life, to cultivate that love of 
truth which will enable us to see every ob- 
ject as it really is, and to see it clearly ; for 
there are vague impressions, and indefinite 


' perceptions, which create in the mind a suc- 


cession of shapeless images, as perplexing in 
their variety, as they are uncertain in their 
form. 

Of persons whose minds are thus occupied, 
it can scarcely be said that they love the 
truth, because they seldom endeavor to as- 
certain what the truth is; and their conse- 
quent deviations from the exact line of recti- 
tude in thought and action, brings upon them, 
not unfrequently, the charge of falsehood, 
when they have all the while been true to the 
image floating before them, but which assum- 
ed a different character as often as interest or 
inclination clothed it in fresh colors. 

Vague and uncertain habits of thinking 
and talking in early life, almost necessarily 
lead to false conclusions; nor is it the least 
part of the evil, that those who indulge them 
are extremely difficult to correct when wrong, 
or rather when not exactly right; because 
conviction cannot be proved upon uncertain- 
ty. All we can say of such persons is, that 
they are as little wrong as right. We can- 
not help them. ‘They are perpetually falling 
into difficulties, and, so long as they live, will 
be liable to incur the suspicion of falsehood. 

That a little knowledge is a dangerous 
thing, may be proved by the observation of 
every day. A little knowledge is generally 
more talked about than a great deal—more 
dragged forward into notice, and, in short, 
more gloried in by its possessor. We will 
take, as an instance, the subject of phrenolo- 
gy. Dabblers in this study who like the eclat 
of pronouncing upon the characters of their 
neighbors, as discovered through that opaque 
medium, the skull, are not a little pleased to 
entertain themselves and others with the 
phraseology of Gall and Spurzheim; while, 
with an air of oracular wisdom, they tell how 
this person is covetous, another prone to kill, 
a third fond of music, and a fourth in the 


| habit of making comparisons. Now, although 


aay 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


a correct knowledge of the exact situation || 
of these different organs in the head, is more 
difficult to attain than most young persons 
are aware of; yet, even this part of the stu- 
dy is nagre play, when compared with that 
exercise of mind, which alone would justify 
any one, even the profoundest philosopher, 
in pronouncing upon individual character, 
according to the principles of phrenology. 
Would any of these fair oracles, for instance, 
be kind enough to tell us what would be the 
result, in summing up the elements of human 
character, where there was an extraordinary 
development of combativeness, connected 
with half as much benevolence, nine-tenths 
of the same amount of hope, one-third of 
self-esteem, three-fourths of causality, and 
one-third of constructiveness. And yet, cal- 
culations as intricate, as minute, and far more 
extensive than this, must be entered into, be- 
fore the science of phrenology, however true, 
can enable any individual to pronounce upon 
the character of another. 

And thus it is throughout. A little know- 
ledge makes people talk, a little more induces 
them to think ; and women, from the careless 
and superficial manner in which their studies 
are frequently carried on, are but too apt to 
be found among the class of talkers. But let 
us pause a moment, to inquire whether the 
smallness of their stock of knowledge is re- 
ally the cause why it is sometimes so unne- 
cessarily brought forward. Is not the evil of 
a deeper nature? and may it not arise from 
false notions popularly entertained respecting | 
the real use of knowledge? I will not say | 
there are any women who absolutely believe | 
that the use of knowledge is to supply them | 
with something to talk about; but are we | 
not warranted in suspecting that this is the | 
rule by which the value of knowledge is too || 
frequently estimated ? | 

Now, one simple view of this subject might |] 

settle the question at once, as to the desira- || 
bleness, or even utility, of women bringing 
forward their knowledge for.the purpose of 
display. It so happens, that few of our sex, 
under ordinary circumstances, have an op- 
portunity of acquiring as much general know- 


—— 


ne renee 


EP al 


ledge as a man of common attainments, or 
even as a mere boy. If we mix in country 
circles, the village schoolmaster has stores of 
knowledge far beyond our own; and in the 
society of towns, the man of business, nay, 
even the mechanic, knows more than we do. 
The nature of their employments, the associ- 
ations they form, and the subjects which en- 
gage their attention, all tend to give to the 
minds of men in general, a clearness of un- 
derstanding on certain points, and an ac- 
quaintance with important facts, beyond what 
is possessed by one woman in a thousand ; 
though, at the same time, women have a 
vast advantage over them in this respect, 
that the liveliness and facility of their intel- 
lectual powers enable them-to invest with 
interest many of the inferior and less im- 
portant topics of conversation. 

General knowledge, however, is not less 
important to them, than to men, in the effect 
it produces upon their own minds and feel- 
ings. <A well-informed woman may generally 
be known, not so much by what she tells 
you, as by what she does not tell you; for 
she is the last to take pleasure in mere gos- 
| sip, or to make vulgar allusions to the ap- 
pearance, dress, or personal habits, of her 


friends and neighbors. Her thoughts are not 
in thuve things. Dheo traia vf hivi reflections 


goes not along with the eating, drinking, vis- 
iting, or scandal, of the circle in which she 
moves. She has a world of interest beyond 
her local associations ; and while others are 
wondering what is the price of her furniture, 
or where she bought her watch, she, perhaps, 
is mentally solving that important question, 
whether civilization ever was extinguished in 
a Christian country. 

Nor is it merely to be able to say, when 
asked, in what year any particular sovereign 
reigned, that knowledge is worth acquiring. 
Its highest use is to be able to assist on all 
occasions in the establishment of truth, by a 
clear statement of facts; to say what expe- 
rience has proved; and to overcome preju- 
dice by just reasoning. It enables us also to 
take expansive views of every subject upon 
which our minds can be employed, so as 


CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 


% 
% 


never to argue against general principles, 
from opposite impressions produced merely 
upon our own minds. : 

As a further illustration of this narrow kind 
of reasoning, we will suppose a case. A well- 
meaning, but ignorant man, derives a consid- 
erable income from a sugar plantation in the 
West Indies, by which he supports a number 
of poor relations. He argues thus—*TIfsla- 
very be abolished, it will injure my profits ; 
and I shall no longer be able to support my 
relations. It is good that I should exercise 
my benevolent feelings through this channel ; 
consequently, the slave-trade must also be 
good. I will, therefore, neither vote for the 
abolition of slavery, nor give my countenance 
to those who do.” Amore truly enlightened 
man, though no more influenced by kindly 
feeling, would know, that it must always be 
right to uphold right principles, and that God 
may safely be trusted with the consequences 
to ourselves. 

Nor is it from our own personal feelings 
alone, that we become liable to this perver- 
sion of judgment, with regard to things in 
general. Prejudice has ever been found more 

‘infectious than the plague, and scarcely less 
fatal. We hear our friends speak warmly on 
subjects we do nut understand. They argue 
vehemently, and our minds, from want of 
knowledge, are open to receive as truth, the 
greatest possible absurdities, which, in our 
turn, we embrace and defend, until they be- 
come more dear to us than truth itself’ The 
probable conclusion is, that in the course of 
time, we prefer to remain in error, rather 
than be convinced that we have all the while 
been wrong. Thus, it is often ignorance 
alone which lays the foundation of many of 
those serious mistakes in opinion and con- 
duct, for which we have to bear all the blame, 
and suffer all the consequences, of moral cul- 
pability. 

Want of general knowledge is also a very 
sufficient reason why some persons, when 
they mix in good society, live in a state of 
perpetual fear lest their deficiencies should 
be found out. Theirs is not that amiable 
modesty which arises from a sense of the 


Il 34 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


| superiority of others; for to admire our 
friends, or even our fellow-creatures, is al- 
ways a pleasurable sensation; while a con- 
| viction of our own ignorance of such topics 
as are generally interesting in good society, 
carries with it a feeling of disgraceful humil- 
iation, perfectly incompatible with enjoyment. 
Uneasiness, timidity, and shyness, with an 
awkward shrinking from every office of re- 
sponsibility, or post of distinction, are the 
unavoidable accompaniments of this convic- 
tion ; and from this cause, how many oppor- 
tunities of extending our sphere of usefulness 
are lost! How many opportunities of rational 
| and lawful enjoyment, too, especially if, from 

a consciousness of our own inferiority, we 

refuse to associate with persons of better in- 
| formation and more enlightened minds. Our 
| sufferings are then of a twofold nature, arising 
! from a sense of mortification at our loss, and 

from the fretfulness and irritation of temper 
| which such privations naturally occasion. 
It is well, too, if envy does not steal in to 
poison the little comfort we might otherwise 
| have left—well if we do not look with evil 
eye upon the higher attainments of our friends 
—well if, while we professedly admire, we 
do not throw out some hint that may tend to 
} diminish their value in the estimation of 
others. 

Thus, there is no end to that culpable want 
of knowledge, which must be the consequence 
of an idle or wasted youth. We may, and 
we necessarily must, learn much in after 
years by experience, observation, reading, and 
conversation. But we are then, perhaps, in 
middle. age, only acquiring a bare knowledge 
of those facts which ought, in by-gone years, 
to have been forming our judgment, fixing 
our principles, and supplying our minds with 
intellectual food. 

If there is no calculation to be made of the 
evils arising from a want of knowledge, as 
little can we estimate the amount of good, of 
which knowledge lays the foundation. Per- 
haps one of its greatest recommendations to 
a woman, is the tendency it has to diffuse a 
calm over the ruffled spirit, and to supply 
subjects of interesting reflection, under cir- 


en 
PSA REIL PT SO Sn 


cumstances the least favorable to the acqui- 
sition of new ideas. 

Such is the position in society which many 
estimable women are called to fill, that unless 
they have stored their minds with general 
knowledge during the season of youth, they | 
never have the opportunity of doing so again. |} 
How valuable, then, is such a store, to draw 
upon for thought, when the hand throughout | 
the day is busily employed, and sometimes |, 
when the head is also weary! It is then that | 
knowledge not only sweetens labor, but often, | 
when the task is ended, and a few social | 
friends are met together, it comes forth un- | 
bidden, in those glimpses of illumination 
which a well-informed, intelligent woman, is 
able to strike out of the humblest material. 
It is then that, without the slightest attempt 
at display, her memory helps her to throw in 
those apt allusions, which clothe the most fa- |}. 
miliar objects in borrowed light, and make us | 
feel, after having enjoyed her society, as if 
we had been introduced to a new, and more 
intellectual existence than we had enjoyed 
before. 

It is impossible for an ignorant, and con- 
sequently a short-sighted, prejudiced woman, 
to exercise this influence over us. We soon 
perceive the bounds of the narrow circle 
within which. she reacans. with self ever in 
the centre; we detect the opinions of others, 


in her own; and we feel the vulgarity with 
which her remarks may turn upon ourselves, 
the moment we are gone. 

How different is the enjoyment, the repose 
we feel in the society of a well-informed wo- 
man, who has acquired in early youth the 
habit of looking beyond the little affairs of 
every-day existence—of looking from mat- 
ter to mind—from action to principle—from 
time to eternity! The gossip of society, that 
many-toned organ of discord, seldom reaches 
her; even slander, which so often slays the 
innocent, she is in many cases able to disarm. 


‘Under all the little crosses and perplexities 


which necessarily belong to household care, 
she is able to look calmly at their comparative 
insignificance, and thus they can never dis- 
turb her peace ; while in all the pleasures of 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 


| intellectual and social intercourse, it is her 
privilege to give as bountifully as she re- 
ceives. 

It must not be supposed that the writer is 
one who would advocate, as essential to wo- 
man, any very extraordinary degree of intel- 
lectual attainment, especially if confined to 
one particular branch of study. “I should 
| like to excel in something,” is a frequent, and, 
| to some extent, laudable expression; but in 
what does it originate, and to what does it 
tend? ‘To be able to do a great many things 
| tolerably well, is of infinitely more value to a 
| woman, than to be able to excel in one. By 
| the former, she may render herself generally 
| useful; by the latter, she may dazzle for an 
| hour. By being apt, and tolerably well skilled 
in every thing, she may fall into any situation 
| in life with dignity and ease—by devoting her 
| time to excellence in one, she may remain 
| incapable of every other. } 

So far as cleverness, learning, and know- 
ledge are conducive to woman’s moral ex- 
cellence, they are therefore desirable, and no 
further. All that would occupy her mind to 
the exclusion of better things, all that would 
involve her in the mazes of flattery and ad- 
| miration, all that would tend to draw away 
her thoughts from others and fix them on 
herself, ought to be avoided as an evil to her, 
| however brilliant or attractive it may be in 
itself. 


CHAPTER IV. 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY 


As a picture which presents to the eye of 
the beholder those continuous masses of 
| light and shade usually recognised under the 
\| characteristic of breadth, though it may be 
| striking, and sometimes even sublime in its 
effect, yet, without the more delicate touches 
of art, must ever be defective in the pleasure 
it affords; so the female character, though 
invested with high intellectual endowments, 
‘must ever fail to charm, without at least a 
taste for music, painting, or poetry. 


30 


The first of these requires no recommen- 
dation in the present day. Indeed, the danger 
is, that the fair picture which woman’s charac- 
ter ought to present, should be broken up into 
that confusion of petty lights and shades, 
which, in the phraseology of paintings, is said 
to destroy its effect as a whole. May we not 
carry on the similitude still further, and com- 
pare the more important intellectual endow- 
ments of human character to the broad lights 
and massive shadows of a picture; music, 
to the richness and variety of its coloring; 
painting, to correctness and beauty of its 
outline; and poetry, to general harmony of 
the whole, consisting chiefly in the aerial or 
atmospheric tints which convey the idea of 
morning, noon, or evening, a storm, a calm, 
or any of the seasons of the year; with all 
the varied associations which belong to each. 

I have said that music requires no recom- 
mendation in the present day, when to play 
like a professor ranks among the highest at- 
tainments of female education. Since, then, 
music is so universally regarded both by the 
wise and good, not only as lawful, but desira. 
ble, it remains to be considered under what 
circumstances the practice of it may be ex- 
pedient or otherwise. 

In the first place, “Have you what is called 
an ear for music?” If you are not annoyed 
by discord, nor made to suffer pain by a false 
note, nor disturbed by errors in time, let no 
persuasion ever induce you to touch the keys 
of a piano, or the chords of a harp again. 

Perhaps you may reply, “ But I am so fond 
of music.” I question it not: for though 
difficult to be accounted for, many persons, 
who have no ear, are fond of music. Yet, 
why not, under such circumstances, be con- 
tent to be a listener for the rest of your lives, 
and thankful that there are others differently 
constituted, who are able to play for your 
amusement, and who play with ease in a 
style superior to what you would have at- 
tained by any amount of labor? All have 
not the same ‘natural gifts. You, in your 
turn, may excel in something else; but as 
well might an automaton be made to dance, 
as a woman destitute of taste for music, be 


et ng 


36 


taught to play with any hope of attaining 
excellence, or even of giving pleasure to her 
friends. It is possible that by an immense 
expenditure of time and money, a wooden 
figure might be so constructed, to dance so 
as to take the proper steps at the right time ; 
but the grace, the ease, indeed all that gives 
beauty to the movements of the dancer, must 
certainly be wanting. Itis thus with music. 
By a fruitless waste of time and application, 
the hand may acquire the habit of touching 
the right keys; but all which constitutes the 
soul of music must be wanting to that per- 
formance, where the ear is not naturally at- 
tuned to “the concord of sweet sounds.” 

It is a good thing to be a pleased and at- 
tentive listener, even in music And far 
happier sometimes is the unpretending girl, 
who sits apart silently listening to another’s 
voice, than any one of the anxious group of 
candidates for promotion to the music-stool, 
whose countenances occasionally display the 
conflicting emotions of hope and fear, tri- 
umph and disappointment. 

There are, however, among men, and wo- 
men too, certain individuals whose souls may 
be said to be imbued with music as an in- 
stinct. It forms a part of their existence, and 
they only live entirely in an atmosphere of 
sound. ‘To such it would be a cold philoso- 
phy to teach the expediency of giving up the 
cultivation of music altogether, because of the 
temptations it involves; and yet to such in- 
dividuals, above all others, music is the most 
dangerous. To them it may be said, that, 
like charity, though in a widely different 
sense, it covers a multitude of sins; for such 
is its influence over them, that while carried 
away by its allurements, they scarcely see or 
feel like moral agents, so as to distinguish 
good from evil; and thus they mistake for an 
intellectual, nay, even sometimes for a spirit- 
ual enjoyment, the indulgence of that passion, 
which is but too earthly in its associations. 

I will not say that music is a species of in- 
toxication, but I do think that an inordinate 
love of it may be compared to intemperance, 
in the fact of its inciting the passions of the 
human mind so much more frequently to evil 


a ET — “eas cep 


aS SS --=Snss<ssetn psnessnceen cose an oS 
pe: - 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


than to good. We are warranted by the lan- 
guage of Scripture to believe, that music is a 
powerfully pervading principle in the uni- 
verse of God. The harmony of thé spheres 
is figuratively set forth under the idea of the 
morning stars singing together, and the Apoc- 
alyptic vision abounds with allusions to ce- 
lestial choirs. Indeed, so perfectly in unison 
is music with our ideas of intense and ele- 
vated enjoyment, that we can scarcely ima- 
gine heaven without the hymning of the 
praises of the Most High by the voices of an- 
gels and happy spirits. But let it be remem- 
bered, that all this is in connection with a pu- 
rified state of being. It is where the serpent 
sin has never entered, or after he has been 
destroyed. Solong as the evil heart is unsub- 
dued—so long as there are desperate passions 
to awaken—so long as the hand of man is 
raised against his brother—so long as the cup 
of riotous indulgence continues to be filled— 
so long as temptation lurks beneath the rose- 
leaves of enjoyment, music will remain to be 
a dangerous instrument in the hands of those 
who are by nature and by constitution its 
willing and devoted slaves. 

Even to such, however, I would fain be- 
lieve, that when kept under proper restric- 
tions, and regulated by right principles, music 
may have its use. There can be no need to 
advise such persons to cultivate, when young, 
their talent for music. The danger is, that 
they will cultivate no other. 

Between these individuals, and the per- 
sons first described, there is a numerous class 
of human beings, of whom it may be said, 
that they possess by nature a litile taste for 
music; and to these the cultivation of it may ! 
be dasirable, or otherwise, according to their 
situation in life, and the views they enter- 
tain of the use of accomplishments in general. 
If the use of accomplishments be to make a 
show of them in society, then a didéle skill in 
music is certainly not worth its cost. But if 
the object of a daughter is to soothe the | 
weary spirit of a father when he returns home 
from the office or the counting-house, where 
he has been toiling for her maintenance ; to 
beguile a mother of her cares; or to charm 


a suffering sister into forgetfulness of her 
| pain; then a very little skill in music may 
often be made to answer as noble a purpose 
| asa great deal; and never does a daughter 
appear to more advantage, than when she 
cheerfully lays aside a fashionable air, and 
strums over, for more than the hundredth 
time, some old ditty which her father loves. 
To her ear it is possible it may be altogether 
divested of the slightest charm. But of what 
importance is that? ‘The old man listens un- 
\| til tears are glistening in his eyes, for he sees 
| again the home of his childhood—he hears 
his father’s voice—he feels his mother’s wel- 
| come—all things familiar to his heart in early 
youth come back to him with that long re- 
membered strain; and, happiest thought of 
all! they are revived by the playful fingers 
of his own beloved child’ The-brother too— 
the prodigal—the alien from the paths of 
peace; in other lands, that fireside music 
haunts his memory. The voice of the stran- 
| ger has no melody for him. His heart is 
chilled. He says, “I will arise and go to my 
father’s home,’’ where a welcome, a heart- 
warm welcome, still awaits him. Yetso wide 
| has been the separation, that a feeling of 
) estrangement still remains, and neither words, 
| nor looks, nor affectionate embraces can 
make the past come back unshadowed, or 
| dispel the cloud which settles upon every 
| heart. The sister feels this. She knows the 
| power'of music, and when the day is closing 
| in, that first strange day of partial reconcilia- 
tion, she plays a low soft air. Her brother 
knows it well. It is the evening hymn they 
| used to sing together in childhood, when they 
|| had been all day gathering flowers. His 
|| manly voice is raised. Once more it mingles 
|| with the strain. Once more the parents and 
|| the children, the sister and the brother, are 
|! united as in days gone by. 

It requires no extraordinary skill in exe- 
|| cution to render music subservient to the 
purposes of social and domestic enjoyment ; 
|| but it:does require a willing spirit, and a feel- 
ing mind, to make it tell upon the sympathies 
|| and affections of our nature. 

_ There is a painful spectacle occasionally 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 


exhibited in private life, when a daughter re- 
fuses to play for the gratification of her own 
family, or casts aside with contempt the mu- 
sic they prefer; yet when a stranger joins 
the circle, and especially when many guests 
are met, she will sit down to the piano with 
the most obliging air imaginable, and play 
with perfect good-will whatever air the com- | 
pany may choose. What must the parents 
of such a daughter feel, if they recollect the 
fact, that it was at their expense their child 
acquired this pleasing art, by which she ap- 
pears anxious to charm any one but them? 
And how does the law of love operate with 
her? Yet, music is the very art, which by 
its mastery over the feelings and affectibns, 
calls forth more tenderness than any other. 
Surely, then, the principle of love ought to 
regulate the exercise of this gift, in propor- 
tion to its influence upon the human heart. 
Surely, it ought not to be cultivated as the 
medium of display, so much as the means of 
home enjoyment; not so much as a spell to 
charm the stranger, or one who has no other 
link of sympathy with us, as a solace to 
those we love, and a tribute of gratitude and 
affection to those who love us. 

With regard to the application and use of | 
the art of painting, or perhaps we ought to | 
say drawing, there is a very serious mistake | 
generally prevailing among young persons, | 
as well as among some who-are more ad- | 
vanced in life. Drawing, as well as music, 
is not only considered as something to enter- 
tain company with, but its desirableness as 
an art is judged of precisely by the estimate 
which is formed of those pieces of polished 
pasteboard brought home from school, and 
exhibited as specimens of genius in the de- 
lineation of gothic arches, ruined cottages, 
and flowers as flat and dry as the paper on 
which they are painted. The use of draw- 
ing, in short, is almost universally judged of 
among young ladies, by what it enables them 
to produce; and no wonder, when ‘such are 
the productions, that its value'should be held 
rather cheap. 

It has often been said with great truth, 
that the first step towards excellence in the 


a 


ND: 


ee 


38 


art of drawing, is to learn to see; and cer- 
tainly, nothing can be more correct than that 
the quickening of the powers of observation, 
the habit of regarding, not only the clear out- 
line, but the relative position of objects, with 
the extension of the sphere of thought which 
is thus obtained, is of infinitely more value in 
forwarding the great work of intellectual ad- 
vancement, than all the actual productions 
of female artists since the world began. 

There are many very important reasons 
why drawing should be especially recom- 
mended to the attention of young persons, 
and I am the more anxious to point them 
out, because, among the higher circles of so- 
ciety, it appears to be sinking into disrepute, 
in comparison with music. Among such 
persons, it is beginning to be considered as a 
sort of handicraft, or as something which 
artists can do better than ladies. In this 
they are perfectly right; but how then are 
they to reap the advantage to themselves, 
which [ am about to describe as resulting 
from an attentive cultivation of the graphic 
art? ie 

Among these advantages, I will begin with 
the least. It isquiet. It disturbs no one; for 


however defective the performance may be, - 


it does not necessarily, like music, jar upon 
the sense. It is true, it may when seen of- 
fend the practised eye; but we can always 
draw in private, and keep our productions 
to ourselves. In addition to this, it is an em- 
ployment which beguiles the mind of many 
cares, because it never can be merely me- 
chanical. The thoughts must go along with 
it, for the moment the attention wanders, the 
hand ceases from its operations, owing to the 
necessity there is that each stroke should be 
different from any which has previously been 
made. Under the pressure of anxiety, in 
seasons of protracted suspense, or when no 
effort can be made to meet an expected 
calamity, especially when that calamity is 
exclusively our own, drawing is of all other 
occupations the one most calculated to keep 
the mind from brooding upon self, and to 
maintain that general cheerfulness which is 
a part of social and domestic duty. 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


Drawing, unlike most other arts, may be 
taken up at any time of life, though certainly 
with less prospect of success than when it 
has been pursued in youth. It can also be 
laid down and resumed, as circumstance or 
inclination may direct, and that without any 
serious loss; for while the hand is employed 
in other occupations, the eye may be learn- 
ing useful lessons to be worked out on some 
future day. 1 

But the great, the wonder-working power 
of the graphic art, is that by which it enables 
us to behold, as by a new sense of vision, 
the beauty and the harmony of the creation. 
Many have this faculty of perception in their 
nature, who never have been taught, perhaps 
not allowed, to touch a pencil, and who re- 
main to the end of their lives unacquainted 
with the rules of painting as an art. To 
them this faculty affords but glimpses of the 
ideal, in connection with the real; but to 
such as have begun to practise the art, by 
first learning to see, each succeeding day un- 
folds some new scene in that vast picture, 
which the ever-varying aspect of nature pre- 
sents. As the faculty of hearing, in the sav- 
age Indian is sharpened to an almost incred- 
ible degree of acuteness, simply from the fre- 
quent need he has for the use of that partic- 
ular sense; so the eye of the painter, from 
the habit of regarding every object with refer- 
ence to its position and effect, beholds ten 
thousand points of interest, which the un- 
practised in this art never perceive. There 
is not a shadow on the landscape, not a 
gleam of sunshine in the fields, not a leaf in 
the forest, nor a flower on the lea, not a sail 
upon the ocean, nor a cloud in the sky, but 
they all form parts of that unfading picture, 


upon which his mind perpetually pose wile 


without satiety or weariness. 

It is a frequent complaint with sabelleks, 
that they find the scenery around them in- 
sipid; but this can never occur to the artist, 
through whatever country he may roam. A 


turn in the road, with a bunch of furze on | 


one side, and a stunted oak on the other, is 
sufficient to arrest his attention, and occupy 
a page in his sketch-book. A willowy brook 


rare 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 


in the deep meadows, with cattle grazing on 
its banks, is the subject of another. The tat- 
tered mendicant is a picture, of himself; or 
the sturdy wagoner with his team, or the sol- 
itary orphan sitting in the porch of the vil- 
lage-church. Every group around the door 
of the inn, every party around the ancient 
elm in the centre of the hamlet, every beast 
of burden feeding by the way-side, has to 
him a beauty and acharm, which his art en- 
ables him to revive and perpetuate. 

It is the same when he mingles in society. 
Hundreds and thousands of human beings 
may pass by the common observer without 
exciting a single thought or feeling, beyond 
their relative position with regard to himself. 
But the painter sees in almost every face a 
picture. He beholds a grace in almost every 
attitude, a scene of interest in every group; 
and, while his eye is caught by the classic 
beauty of an otherwise insignificant counte- 
nance, he arrests it in the position where 
light and shadow are most harmoniously 
bleaded ; and, behold! it lives again beneath 
his touch—another, yet the same. 

In every object, however familiar in itself, 
or unattractive in other points of view, the 
painter perceives at once what is striking, 
characteristic, harmonious, or graceful; and 
thus, while associating in the ordinary affairs 
of life, he feels himself the inhabitant of a 
world of beauty, from which others are shut 
out. 
Would that we could dwell with more 
satisfaction upon this ideal existence, as it 
affects the morals of the artist’s real life! 
Whatever there may be defective here, how- 
ever, as regards the true foundation of hap- 
piness, is surely not attributable to the art it- 
self; but to the necessity under which too 
| many labor, of courting public favor, and 
sometimes of sacrificing the dignity of their 
profession to its pecuniary success. 

Nor is it an object of desirable attainment 
| to women in general, that they should study 
the art of painting to this extent. Amply 
sufficient for all their purposes, is the habit 
of drawing from natural objects with correct- 
ness and facility. Copying from other draw- 


ings, though absolutely necessary to the learn- 
er, is but the first step towards those innu- 
merable advantages which arise from an easy 
and habitual use of the pencil. Yet here 
how many stop, and think their education in 
the graphic art complete! They think also, 
what is most unjust of drawing, that it is on- 
ly the amusement of an idle hour, incapable 
of producing any happier result than an ex- 
act fac-simile of the master’s lesson. No 
wonder, that with such ideas, they should 
evince so little inclination to continue this 
pursuit on leaving school. For though it isa 
common thing to hear young ladies exclaim, 
how much they should like to sketch from 
nature, and how much they should like to 
take likenesses, it is very rarely that we find 
one really willing to take a hundredth part 
of the pains which are necessary to the at- 
tainment even of mediocrity in either of 
these departments. That it is in reality 
easier, and far more pleasant, to sketch 
from nature, than from another drawing, is 
allowed by all who have made the experi- 
ment on right principles; which, however, 
few young persons are able to do, because 
they are so seldom instructed in what, if I 
might be allowed the expression, I should 
call the philosophy of picture-making, or, in 
other words, the relation of cause and effect 
in the grouping and general management 
of objects, so as to unite a number of parts 
into a perfect and pleasing whole. 

Perspective is the first step in this branch 
of philosophy, but the nature and effect of 
light and shade, with the proportions and re- 
lations of different objects, and harmony, that 
grand feature of beauty, must all have be- 
come subjects of interest and observation, be- 
fore we can hope to sketch successfully ; and 
especially, before we can derive that high 
degree of intellectual enjoyment from the art 
of painting, which it is calculated to afford. 
Yet all these, by close and frequent attention, 
may be learned from nature itself, though an 
early acquaintance with the rules of art will 
greatly assist the understanding in this school 
of philosophy. 

Among the numerous mistakes made by 


40 


| young people on the subject of drawing, none 
isa greater hindrance to their efforts, than, 
} an. idea which generally prevails, that not 
only drawing itself, but each different branch 
of the art, requires a natural genius for that 
particular study. ‘Thus, while one excuses 
herself from drawing because she has no 
genius for it ; another tells you, that although 
she can draw landscapes with great facility, 
she has no genius for heads. Now, if genius 
be, as Madame de Stael informs us, “ en- 
thusiasm operating upon talent,” I freely 
grant that it is essential to success in this, as 
well as every other art. You must not only 
learn it, but you must absolutely dove it, was 
the frequent expression of a very clever mas- 
ter to his pupil. And it is this very love, 
which of itself will carry on the young student 
to any point of excellence, which it is desir- 
able for a woman to attain. 

It is true, there are greater difficulties to 
some than to others; just as the eye is more 
or less acute in its perceptions, or the com- 
munication between that and the hand more 
or less easy. Yet, with the same amount of 
genius and a little more patience, with a little 
more humility too, for that has more to do 
with success in painting than the inexperi- 
enced are aware of, these difficulties may 
easily be overcome. 

I have ‘said that humility is necessary to 
| our success, and it operates precisely in this 
manner. It always happens that the eye 
| has been in training for observation, long be- 


| fore the hand begins to trace so much asa, 


| bare outline of what the eye perceives. Thus, 
| our first attempts at imitation fall so far short, 
not only of the real, but also of the ideal 
| which the mind retains, that if praise or ad- 
miration have had any thing to do with inci- 
ting us to draw, the mortification which en- 
sues will probably be more than a young art- 
ist can endure. She must, therefore, be 
humble enough to be willing to proceed with- 
out praise, sometimes without commendation, 
and occasionally with a more than comfort- 
able share of ridicule, as the reward of her 
first endeavors; all which might possibly be 
borne with equanimity, if she did not herself 


ne 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


perceive a fearful want of resemblance to the 
thing designed. 

The practice of drawing the human face 
and figure, is a sufficient illustration of this 
fact. For one who succeeds in this. branch 


landscapes; because, those who fail assure. 
you, itisso much more difficult to draw faces 
and figures. This statement, however, is al- 
together unsupported by reason, since it re- 
quires just the same use of the eye and the 
hand, and just the same exercise of the mind, 
to draw one object as another; and provided 
only the object drawn is stationary, it is quite 
as easy to trace with accuracy the outiine of 
a head, as of a tree, or a mountain. 

There is, however, a wide difference in the 
result. By a slight deviation from the true 
outline of a mountain, no great injury to the 
general effect of a landscape is produced; 
while the same degree of deviation from the 
outline of a face, will sometimes entirely de- 
stroy, not only the likeness, but the beauty of 
the whole. Even a branch of a tree, and 
sometimes a whole tree, may be omitted in 
a landscape; but if a nose, or an eye, were 
found wanting in the drawing of a face, it 
would be difficult to treat the performance 
with any thing like gravity. 

Thus, then, the vanity of the young stu- 
dents is more severely put to the test in delin- 
eations of the human form, than it can be in 
landscape drawing; and thus they are apt 
to say, they have no. genius for heads or fig- 
ures, because their love of excellence, though 
sufficient for the purposes of landscape draw- 
ing, is not strong enough to support them 
under the mortification of having produced a 
badly drawn face or figure. 

It is not the least among the advantages 


of drawing, that it induces a habit of perpet- | 


ually aiming at ideal excellence; in other 
words, that it draws the mind away from 
considering the grosser qualities of matter, 
to the contemplation of beauty as an abstract 
idea; that it gives a definiteness to our no- 
tions of objects in general, and enables us to 
describe, with greater accuracy, the character 
and appearance of every thing we see. 


Nagi 


of drawing, there are twenty who succeed in !) 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 


41 


Nor ought we by any means to overlook 
the value of that which the pencil actually 
produces. Sketches of scenery, however 
defective as works of art, are among the pre- 
cious memorials of which time, the great de- 
stroyer, is unable to deprive us. In them the 
traveller lives again, through all the joys and 
sorrows of his distant wanderings. He 
breathes again the atmosphere of that. far 
world which his eye will never more behold. 
He treads again the mountain-path where 
his step was never weary. He sees the sun- 
shine on the snowy peaks which rise no more 
tohim. He hears again the shout of joyous 
exultation, when it bursts from hearts as young 
and buoyant as his own; and he remembers, 
at the same time, how it was with him in 
those by-gone days, when, for the moment, 
he was lifted up above the grovelling cares 
of every-day existence. 

But, above all, the art which preserves to 
us the features of the loved and lost, ought 
to be cultivated as a means of natural and 
enduring gratification. 
back to the portrait of infancy, or even youth, 
when the same countenance is stamped with 
the deep traces of experience, when the ven- 
erable brow is ploughed with furrows, and 
the temples are shaded with scattered locks 
of silvery hair. It is interesting—deeply in- 
teresting, to behold the likeness of some dis- 
tinguished character, with whose mind we 
have long been acquainted, through the me- 
dium of his works; but the beloved counte- 
nance, whose every line of beauty was min- 
gled with our young affections, when this can 
be made to live before us, after death has 
done his fearful work, and the grave has 
claimed its own—we may well say, in the 
language of the poet, of that magic skill which 
has such power over the past, as to call up 
buried images, and clothe them again in beau- 
ty and in youth, 


“ Bless’d be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles 'Time’s tyrannic claim 
To quench it.” 


Beyond these, however, there are uses in 
the art of drawing so well worthy the consid- 


It is curious to look: 


eration of every young woman of enlighten- 
ed mind, that we cannot too earnestly recom- 
mend this occupation to their attention, even 
although it should be at some sacrifice of that 
labyrinthine toil of endless worsted-work, 
with which, in the case of modern young 
ladies, both head and hand appear to be so 
perseveringly employed. I freely grant the 
charm there is in weaving together the many 
tints of German wool, but what does this 
amusement do for the mind, except to keep 
it quiet, and not always that? Now, the sub- 
stitute I would propose for this occupation, 
is equally pleasing in the variety of colors 
employed, and yet calculated to be highly 
beneficial in its influence upon the mind, by 
increasing its store of knowledge, and sup- 
plying a perpetual source of rational interest, 
even at times when the occupation itself can- 
not well be carried on. : 

My proposition, then, is this: that, in pur- 
suing the study of botany, instead of the un- 
attractive hortus siccus, which pleases no one 
but the scientific beholder, correct and natu- 
ral drawings should be made of every speci- 
men, just as it appears when growing, or 
when freshly gathered. Insiead of the 
colorless, distorted, hot-pressed specimens, 
which the botanist now displays, to the utter 
contempt of all uninitiated in his lore, we 


should then have beautiful and imperishable 


pictures of graceful, delicate, or curious 
plants, looking just as they did when the 
mountain-wind blew over them, or when 
the woodland stream crept in among their 
thousand stems, and kissed’ the drooping 
blossoms that hung upon its banks. We 
might then have them placed before us in all 
their natural loveliness, either the flower, the 


branch, or the entire plant; and sometimes, 


to render the picture more complete, the 
characteristic scenery by which it is usually 
surrounded. 

But if in botany the practice of this art is 
so desirable, how much more so does it be- 
come in entomology, where the study can 
scarcely be carried on without a sacrifice of 
life most revolting to the female mind. 
What beautiful specimens might we not 


SS 


| 42 


have of the curious caterpillar, with a branch 

of the tree on which it feeds; then the larva 
and its silken bed ; and lastly, the splendid 
butterfly, whose expanded wings no cruel 
touch could ruffle ; all forming pictures of 
the most interesting and delightful character, 
and powerfully contrasted in the associations 
they would excite, with those regular rows 
of moths and beetles pricked on paper, which 
our juvenile collectors now exhibit. 

It may be said, that even such specimens 
of insects could scarcely be obtained without 
some sacrifice of life or liberty ; but we all 
know that when the eye and the hand are 
habituated to catch the likeness of any object, 
it is done with increasing facility each time 
the experiment is made, until a comparative- 
ly slight observation of the general appear- 
ance, position, and characteristic features of 
the living model, is sufficient for the artist in 
the completion of his likeness. 

~The same facility of delineation would as- 
sist our researches through the whole range 
of natural history. By such means we should 
not only be supplied with endless amuse- 
ment, but might at the same time be adding 
to our store of useful knowledge. We 
should not only be making ourselves better 
acquainted with the poetry of nature, but 
with its reality too. For what is there, either 
practical or real, in the specimens of plants 
and insects as.we generally find them? Real 
they unquestionably are, in one sense, as the 
mummy is a real man; but who would point 
to that pitiful vestige of mortality as exhibit- 
ing the real characteristics of a human being? 

It seems to me a perfectly natural subject 
of repulsion, when the poet exclaims— 

* Nor would I like to spread 
My thin and withered face, 
The hortus siccus, pale and dead, 
A mummy of my race.” 
And few there are who would not prefer to 
such miserable memorials, as actually more 
| real, a well-painted likeness of a departed 
friend, with the expression of countenance, 
the dress, the position, and the circumstances 
| with which the memory of that friend was 


| associated. 


_— 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


ns 


Drawing is, unfortunately, one of: those 
accomplishments which are too frequently. 
given up at the time of life when they. might 
be most useful to others,—when they: might i 
really be turned to good account, in that 


early expansion and development of mind, 
which belong exclusively to woman in her |} 
maternal capacity; but as this view of the || 
subject belongs more properly tc a later stage || 
of the present work, we will pass on to ask, 
In what degree of estimation poetry is, and |}, 
ought to be held, by the daughters of Eng- || 
land in the present day ? 

There have been eras in our history, when 
poetry assumed a more than reasonable 
sway over the female mind; when an ac- |, 
quaintance with the Muses. was considered 


essential to a polished education, and when 
the very affectation of poetic feeling proved 
how. high a value was attached to the reality. 
It would be useless now to speak of the ab- 
surdities into which the young and sensitive 
were often betrayed by this extreme of pub- 
lic taste. Such times are gone by, and the 
opposite extreme is now the tendency of | 
popular feeling. It is not to be wondered at 
that this should be the case with men ; be- 
cause, as a nation, our fathers, husbands, 
sons, and brothers are becoming more and 
more involved in the necessity of providing 
for mere animal existence. No woniler, 
then, that in our teeming cities poetry should 
be compelled to hide her diminished head ; 
or that even, pursuing the man of business 
home to his suburban villa, she should leave 
him to his stuffed armchair, in the arms of 
that heavy, after-dinner sleep, which so 
frequently succeeds to his short and busy 
day of unremitting struggle and excitement. 
Nor is this all. If poetry should seek the 
quiet fields, as in the days of their pastoral 
beauty, even from these, her green and flow- 
ery haunts, she is scared away by the steam- 
ing torrent, the reeking chimney, and the fiery 
locomotive ; while on the wide ocean, where 
her ancient realm was undisputed, her silvery 
trace upon the bosom of the deep waters is 
now ploughed up by vulgar paddles; and | 
all the voiceless mystery of “ viewless winds,” 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND. POETRY. 


43 


which in the old time held the minds of ex- 
pectant thousands under their command, is 
now become a thing of no account—a by- 
word, or a jest. 

I speak not with childish or ignorant re- 
pining of these things. We are told by: po- 
litical economists. that it is good they should 
be so, and I presume not to dispute the fact. 
Yet, surely, if it be the business of man to 
give up the strength of his body, the energy 
of his mind, and the repose, of his soul, for 
his country’s prosperity or—his own; it is 
for woman, who labors under no such press- 
ing necessity, to make a stand against the 
encroachments of this popular tendency,—I 
had almost said, this national disease. 

What is poetry? is a question which has 
been asked a thousand times, and perhaps 
never clearly answered. I presume not to 
suppose my own definition more happy than 
others ; but in a work* already before the 
public, I have been at some pains to place 
| this subject in a point of view at once clear 
| and attractive. My idea of poetry as ex- 
plained in this work, and it remains to be the 
same, is, that it is best understood by that 
chain of association which connects the intel- 
lects with the affections ; so that whatever is 
so far removed from vulgarity, as to excite 
| ideas of sublimity, beauty, or tenderness, 
| may. be said to be poetical; though the force 
of such ideas must depend upon the man- 
ner in which they are presented to the 
mind, as well as to the nature of the mind 
itself. 

When the character of an individual is 
deeply imbued with poetic feeling, there is 
a corresponding disposition to look beyond 
the dull realities of common life, to the ideal 
relation of things, as they connect them- 
_selves with our passions and feelings,.or with 
the previous impressions we have received 
of loveliness or grandeur, repose or excite- 
ment, harmony or beauty, in the universe 
around us. ‘This disposition, it must be 
granted, has been in some instances a for- 
midable obstacle to the even tenor of the 


* The Poetry of Life. 


| Yet this mystery reveals more truly than the 
| clearest proofs, or mightiest deductions of 


wise man’s walk on earth; but let us not, 
while solicitous to avoid the abuse of poetic 
feeling, rush into the opposite excess of neg- | 
lecting the high and heaven-born principle 
altogether. 

It is the taste of the present times to invest 
the material with an immeasurable extent of ||. 
importance beyond the ideal. It is the ten- | 
dency of modern education to instil into the 
youthful mind the necessity of knowing, ra- 
ther than the advantage of feeling. And, to 
a certain extent, “knowledge is power ;” but | 
neither is knowledge all that we live for, nor 
power all that we enjoy. There are deep 
mysteries in the book of nature which all can 
feel, but none will ever understand, until the 
veil of mortality shall be withdrawn. There 
are stirrings in the heart of man which con- 
stitute the very essence of his being, and 
which power can neither satisfy nor subdue. 


science, that a master-hand has been for 
ages, and is still at work, above, beneath, 
and around us; and this moving principle is 
forever reminding us, that, in our nature, 
we inherit the germs of a future existence, 
over which time has ne influence, and the 
grave no victory.* 

If, then, for man it be absolutely necessary 
that he should sacrifice the poetry of his na- 
ture for the realities of material and animal 
existence, for woman there is no excuse— 
for woman, whose whole life, from the cradle 
to the grave, is one of feeling, rather than of 
action; whose highest duty is so often to |i 
suffer, and be still; whose deepest enjoy- 
ments are all relative; who has nothing, and |: 
is nothing, of herself; whose experience, if 
unparticipated, is a total blank; yet, whose 
world of interest is wide as the realm of hu- 
manity, boundless as the ocean of life, and 
enduring as eternity! For woman, who, in 
her inexhaustible sympathies, can live only 
in the existence of another, and whose very 
smiles and tears are not exclusively her own 
—for woman to cast away the love of poetry, 


* The Poetry of Life. 


A a a er 


= 
Ne a I ee 


ee 


44 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


is to pervert from their natural course the 
sweetest and loveliest tendencies of a truly 


feminine mind, to destroy the brightest charm’ 


which can adorn ber intellectual character, to 
blight the fairest rose in her wreath of youth- 
ful beauty. 

A woman without poetry is like a land- 
scape without sunshine. We see every ob- 
ject as distinctly as when the sunshine is 
upon it; but the beauty of the whole is 
wanting—the atmospheric tints, the harmony 
of earth and sky, we look for in vain; and 
we feel that though the actual substance of 
hill and dale, of wood and water, are the 
same, the spirituality of the scene is gone. 

A woman without poetry! The idea is a 
paradox; for what single subject has ever 
been found so fraught with poetical associa- 
tions as woman herselft “Woman, with 
her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and 
fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and 
her blushes of purity, and the tones and 
looks which only a mother’s heart can inspire.” 

The little encouregement which poetry 
meets with in the present day, arises, I ima- 
gine, out of its supposed opposition to utility ; 
and certainly, if to eat and to drink, to dress 
as well or better than our neighbors, and to 
amass a fortune in the shortest possible space 
of time, be the highest aim of our existence, 
then the less we have to do with poetry the 
better. But may we not be mistaken in the 
ideas we habitually attach to the word util- 
ity? There is a utility of material, and an- 
other of immaterial things. There isa utility 
in calculating our bodily wants, and our re- 
sources, and in regulating our personal ef- 
forts in proportion to both; but there is a 
higher utility in’sometimes setting the mind 
free, like a bird that has been caged, to 
spread its wings, and soar into the ethereal 
world. There is a higher utility in some- 
times pausing to feel the power which is in 
the immortal spirit to search out the principle 
of beauty, whether it bursts upon us with the 
dawn of rosy morning, or walks at gorgeous 
noon across the hills and valleys, or lies, at 


evening’s dewy close, enshrined within a 
folded flower. 


re rvenneseereennen, ancesumeesT™ 


It is good, and therefore it must be useful, 
to see and to feel that the all-wise Creator 
has set the stamp of degradation only upon 


those things which perish in the using; but 


that all those which enlarge and elevate the 
soul, all which afford us the highest and 
purest enjoyment, from the loftiest range of 
sublimity, to the .softest emotions of tender- 
ness and love, are, and must be, immortal. 
Yes, the mountains may be overthrown, and 
the heavens themselves may melt away, 
but all the ideas with which they inspired 
us—their vastness and their grandeur, will 
remain. Every flower might fade from the 
garden of earth, but would beauty, as an es- 
sence, therefore cease to exist? Even love 
might fail us here. Alas! how often does it fail 
us at our utmost need! But the principle of 
love is the same; and there is no human 
heart so callous as not to respond to the lan- 
guage of the poet, when he says— 


“'They sin who tell us love can die 
* * * * * * 


Its holy flame for ever burneth, 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 

At times deceived, at times opprest, 

It here is tried and purified, 

And hath in heaven its perfect rest; 

It soweth here with toil and care, 

But the harvest-time of love is there.” 

All these ideas are excited, and all these 
impressions are made upon the mind through 
the medium of poetry. By poetry, I do not 
mean that vain babbling in rhyme, which 
finds no echo, either in the understanding or 
the heart. By poetry, I mean that ethereal 
fire, which touched not the lips only, but the 
soul of Milton, when he sung of 

“‘ Man’s first disobedience,” 


and which has inspired all who ever walked 
the same enchanted ground, from the father 
of poetry himself, down to as 

“ The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough.” 


Thousands have felt this principle of poetry 
within them, who yet have never Jearned to 
lisp in numbers; and perhaps they are the 
wisest of their class, for they have thus the 
full enjoyment which poetic feeling affords, 


it 
ie 


l without the disappointment which so_ fre- 
| quently attends upon the efforts of those 
il who venture to commit. themselves in verse. 
| Men of business, whose hearts and minds 
\| are buried in their bales. of goods, and who 
| know no relaxation from the office or the 
counter, except what the daily newspaper 
| affords, are apt to conclude that poetry does 


/ takes charge of their domestic affairs. 
|} though I should be the last person to recom- 
|| mend poetry as a substitute for household 
|} economy, or to put even the brightest ema- 
| nations of genius in the place of domestic 
duty, I do not see why the two should not 


that, although a vast proportion of mankind 
have lost their relish for poetry, it would not 
in reality be better’ for them to be convinced 
by their companions of the gentler sex, that 
poetry, so far from being incompatible with 
social or domestic comfort, is capable of being 
associated with every rational and lawful en- 
| joyment. - 
| Yes, it is better for every one to have their 
minds elevated, rathed than degraded—raised 
up to a participation in thoughts and feelings 
| in which angels might take a part, rather than 
' chained down to the grovelling cares of mere 
corporeal existence; and never do we feel 
more happy than when, in the performance 
of any necessary avocation, we look beyond 
the gross material on which we are employed 
to those relations of thought and feeling, that 
| connect the act of duty which occupies our 
' hands with some being we love, that teach 
} us to realize, while thus engaged, the smile 
of gratitude which is to constitute our reward, 
| or the real benefit that act will be the means 
| of conferring, even when no gratitude is there. 
| What man of cultivated mind, who has 
ever tried the experiment, would choose to 
| live with a woman, whose whole soul was 
: absorbed in the strife, the tumult, the perpet- 
| ual discord which constant occupation in the 
| midst of material things so inevitably pro- 
| duces; rather than with one whose attention, 
| equally alive to practical duties, had a world 


ey 
A I 


MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. ya 


|} nothing for them; because it never keeps. 
| their accounts, prepares their dinner, nor 
Now, 


experience of deep. poetic feeling, is rather a |} 
| principle, which, while it inspires the love of | 
| beauty in general, forgets not the beauty of t 
fitness and order; and therefore can never i 
sanction that which is grotesque or out of ! 
place. It teaches us, that nothing which of- | 


} fends the feelings of others can be estimable | 
exist together; nor am I quite convinced | 


| that woman can be in herself poetical. She |} 


lent in others. 


of deeper feeling in her “heart of hearts,” 
with which no selfish, worldly, or vulgar 
thoughts could mingle? 

It is not because we love poetry, that we 
must be always reading, quoting, or compos- 
ing it Far otherwise. For that bad. taste, 
which would thus abuse and misapply so sa- 
cred a gift, is the very: opposite of poetical. 
The love of poetry, or in other words, the 


or praiseworthy in ourselves; for it is only || 
in reference to her association with others, | 


may even fill a book with poetry, and not be 
poetical in her own character; because she 
may at the same time be selfish, vain, and 
worldly-minded. | 
To have the mind so imbued with poetic 
feeling that it shall operate as a charm upon 
herself and others, woman must be lifted out 
of self, she must see in every thing material a |j 
relation, an essence, and an end, beyond its 
practical utility. She must regard the little | 
envyings, bickerings, and disputes about com- || 
mon things, only as weeds in the pleasant 
garden of life, bearing no comparison in im- 
portance with the loveliness of its flowers. 
She must forget even her own personal at- 
tractions, in her deep sense of the beauty. of 
the whole created universe, and she must 
lose the very voice of flattery to herself,-in 
her own intense admiration of what is excel- 


This it is to be poetical; and I ask again, 
whether it is not good, in these practical and 
busy times, that the Daughters of England 
should make a fresh effort to retain that 
high-toned_ spirituality of character, which 
has ever been the proudest distinction of 
their sex, in order that they may possess | 
that influence over the minds of men, which | 
the intellectual and the refined alone are ca- | 
pable of maintaining ? 


46 


RELATED REE DUETS AR na Sm arena Bea oe eR TTS Dj i ag ore 


Let them look for a moment at the condi- 
tion of woman wherever this high tone of 
character has been wanting, where she has 
been identified merely with material things, 
and, as a necessary consequence, regarded 
as a soulless and degraded being, essential to 
society only in her ministration to the general 
good of man. 
is fully unfolded. The Daughters of Eng- 
land must feel within themselves that a high- 
er and a nobler destiny is theirs. 


CHAPTER V. 
TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 


In the cursory survey we have now taken 
of what may properly be called the intellect- 
lectual groundwork of the female character, 
our attention has been directed not only to 
those scholastic attainments which are gen- 
erally comprehended in a good education, 
but to that general knowledge, which can 
only be acquired by after-study, by observa- 
tion, py reading, and by association with good 
society. 

All these, however, are but the materials 
of character, materials altogether useless, and 
sometimes worse than “useless, without the 
operation of a master-power to select, im- 
prove, and turn them to the best account. 
With men, this power is most frequently self- 
interest—with women it is that bias of feel- 
ing towards what they are most inclined to 


love, which is generally recognised under the 


name of taste; and both these principles be- 
gin to exercise their influence long before the 
mind has attained any high degree of intel- 
lectual cultivation, and long before we are 
aware of our own motives. I have called 


this principle in woman, taste, because so 
far as it is biassed by the affections, taste in- 
volves a moral; and it is a peculiar feature 
in the female character, that few things are 
esteemed which do not recommend them- 
selves in some way or other to the affections. 

Thus, women are often said to be deficient 


But we close the scene ere it | 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


in judgment, simply from this reason, that 
judgment is the faculty by which we are en- 
abled to decide what is intrinsically best, 
while taste only influences us so far as to 


choose what is most agreeable to our own” 


feelings. 

It is no uncommon thing among young 
women, to hear them say, they like a thing 
they do not know why—nay, so warm are 
their expressions, one would be led to sup- 
pose their preference arose from absolute 
love, and yet, 


“ The reason why, they cannot tell.” 


It is that habitual tendency of feeling or tone 
of mind, which I have called taste, that de- 
cides their choice; and it is thus that our 
moral worth or dignity depends upon the ex- 
ercise of good taste, in the selection we make 
of the intellectual materials we work with in 
the formation of character, and the general 
arrangement of the whole, so as to render the 
trifling subservient to the more important, 
and each estimable according to the purpose 
for which it is used. 

I am aware that religious principle is the 
only certain test by which character can be 
tried; but Iam speaking of things as they 
are, not as they ought to be; and I wish to 
prove the great importance of taste, by show- 
ing that it is.a principle busily at work in di- 


recting the decisions of the female mind on. 


points supposed to be too trifling for the oper- 
ation of religious feeling, and often before 
any definite idea of religion has been formed. 
It is strictly in subservience to religion, that I 
would speak of good taste as being of ex- 
treme importance to woman; because it 
serves her purpose in all those little varia- 
tions of human life, which are too sudden in 
their occurrence, and too minute in them- 
selves, for the operation of judgment; but 


ee 
: ; ; - nee Tmt Aral * 


—_—_——— 


which at the same time constitute so large a | 


sum of woman’s experience. 

It may be said, that the rules of good taste 
are so arbitrary, that no one can fully under- 
stand them. I can only repeat, what I have 
said on this subject in “The Poetry of Life,” 
and I think the rule is sufficient for women 


in general. It is, that the majority of opinion 
among those who are best able to judge, may 
safely be considered as most in accordance 
with good taste. ‘Thus, when your taste has 
received from your parents a particular bias, 
which you are afterwards led to suspect is 
not a correct one, inquire with all respect, 
whether, on that’particular subject, your pa- 
rents are the persons best qualified to judge. 
Or when you find in society that any thing is 
universally approved or condemned, before 
accommodating your own taste to this exhi- 
bition of popular feeling, ask whether the 
judges who pronounce such sentence are 
competent ones, and if there be a higher tri- 
bunal at which the question can be tried—or 
| in other words, judges who understand the 
subject better, let it be referred to them, be- 
fore you finally make up your mind. 

Perhaps it may be objected that this is a 
tedious process, and that taste is a thing of 
sudden conclusion. But let it be remem- 
bered, I am now sper king of the formation 
of a good taste, as a part of the character ; 
not of the operation of taste where it has 
been formed. Nor, indeed, is the suddenness 
with which some young persons decide in 
matters of taste, any proof of their good 
‘sense. So far from this, we often find them, 
under the influence of better judges, reduced 
to the mortifying necessity of changing their 
opinions to the direct opposite of what they 
have too hastily expressed. 

Still, though the process of forming the 
taste upon right principles, may at first be 
slow; and though it may sometimes appear 
too tedious for juvenile impetuosity, the ex- 
ercise of good taste will in time become so 
easy, and habitual, as to operate almost like 
an instinct; and, until it is so, the process I 
have recommended, will have the great ad- 
vantage of preventing young ladies from be- 
ing too forward in expressing their senti- 
ments; and what is of far greater impor- 
tance, they will be cautious in making their 
selection of what they admire, and what 
they condemn. 

Have we not all seen in society the ridicu- 
lous spectacle of a young and forward girl 


TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 


belongs to all pleasurable feeling, held in 


exhibiting all the extravagance of juvenile 
importance in her condemnation of a book, 
which has not happened to please her fancy ; 
when, had she waited a few minutes longer, 
the conversation would have taken such a 
turn, as would have convinced her that 
among wise men, and enlightened women, 
the work was considered justly worthy of 
high commendation? With what grace could 
she, then, after having thus committed her- 
self,either defend, or withdraw her own 
opinions? or with what complacency could 
she reflect upon the exposure she had made 
of her bad taste, before persons qualified to 
judge? Far wiser is the part, perhaps, of 
her more diffident companion, who having 
equally failed in discovering the merits of the 
work in question, goes home and reads it 
again, with her attention more directed to its 
beauties ; and who, even if she fails at last 
in deriving that pleasure from the book which 
she had hoped, has the humility to conclude 
that the fault is in her own taste, which she 
then begins to regulate upon a new principle, 
and with a determination to endeavor to ad- 
mire what the best judges pronounce to be 
really excellent. 

We must not, however, attach too much 
importance to good taste, nor require it to 
operate beyond its legitimate sphere. ‘Taste, 
unquestionably, gives a bias to the character, 
in its tendency to what is elevated or low, 
refined or vulgar; but after all, the part of 
taste is only that of a witness called into a 
court of justice, to test the value of an arti- 
cle, which has some relation to the great and 
momentous decision in which the judge, the 
jury, and the court, are so deeply interested. 
As taste is that witness, religion is that judge; 
and it is only as the one is kept subservient 
to the other, that it can be rendered condu- 
cive to our happiness or our good. | 

The province of taste, then, includes all 
the minute affairs of woman’s life—which | 


subordination to religious principle—all which 
belongs to dress, manners, and social habits, 
so far as they may be said to be ladylike, or 
otherwise. Should any consideration, rela- 


|| 48 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


ting to one or all of these points, be allowed 
to interfere in the remotest degree with the 
requirements of religion, it is a proof, when- 
ever they do so, that the standard of excel- 
lence is a wrong one; and the individual 
who commits so fatal an error, would do well 
to look to the consequences, and remedy the 
evil before it shall be too late. Religion 
never yet was injured by permitting good 
taste to follow in her train; but that lovely 
handmaid can deserve the name of taste no 
longer, if she attempts to step before religion, 
orin any respect to assume her place. 

Above every other feature which adorns 
the female character, delicacy stands foremost 
whithin the province of good taste. Not 
that delicacy which is perpetually in quest of 
something to be ashamed of, which makes a 
merit of a blush, and simpers at the false 
construction its own ingenuity has put upon 


|| an innocent remark; this spurious kind of 


| delicacy is as far removed from good taste, 


|| as from good feeling, and good sense; but 
|| that high-minded delicacy which maintains 


|| its pure and undeviating walk alike among. 


{| Women, as in the society of men; which 


| shrinks from no necessary duty, and can | 


i| speak, when required, with seriousness and 


kindness of things at which it would be 


|| ashamed indeed to smile or to blush—that 
{| delicacy which knows how to confer a benefit 
|| without wounding the feelings of another, 
| and which understands also how and when 


|| to receive one—that delicacy which can give. 


|| alms without display, and advice with6but as- 


sumption; and which pains not the most 


|} humble or susceptible being in creation. 


| This is the delicacy which forms so impor- 


tanta part of good taste, that where it does 


not exist as a natural instinct, it is taught as 
the first principle of good manners, and con-- 
sidered as the universal passport to good so- | 
| voice has altered, when an unwelcome > 


ciety. : 


Nor-can this, the greatest charm of female | 
character, if totally neglected in youth, ever | 
When the mind | 
| cumstance which has just transpired. 


be acquired in after life. 
has been accustomed ‘to what is vulgar, or 


gross, the fine edge of feeling is gone, and 


nothing can restore it. It is comparatively 


easy, on first entering upon life, to maintain 
the page of thought unsullied, by closing it 
against every improper image; but when 
once such images are allowed to mingle with 
the imagination, so as to be constantly reviv- | 
ed by memory, and thus to give their tone to 
the habitual mode of thinking and conversing, 
the beauty of the female character may in- 
deed be said to be gone, and its glory de- 
parted. k 

But we will no longer contemplate: so un- 
lovely—so unnatural a picture. Woman, 
happily for her, is gifted by nature with a 
quickness of perception, by which she is able | 
to detect the earliest approach of any thing 
which might tend to destroy that high-toned 
purity of character, for which, even in the 
days of chivalry, she was more reverenced 
and adored, than for her beauty itself ‘This 
quickness of perception in minute and deli- 
cate points, with the power which woman 
also possesses of acting upon it instantaneous- | 
ly, has, in familiar phraseology, obtained the 
name of tact; and when this natural gift is 
added to good taste, the two combined are 
of more value to a woman in the social and 
domestic affairs of every-day life, than the — 
most brilliant intellectual endowments could | 
be without them. 

When a woman is possessed of a high | 
degree of tact, she sees, as if by a kind of sec- 
ond-sight, when any little emergency is like. | 
ly to occur ; or when, to use a more familiar | 
expression, things do not seem likely to go | 
right. She is thus aware of any sudden turn | 
in conversation, and prepared for what it 
may lead to; but, above all, she can pene- | 
trate into the state of mind of those with whom | 
she is placed in contact, so as to detect the 
gathering gloom upon another’s brow, before 
the mental storm shall have reached any for- 
midable height; to know when the tone of | 


thought has presented itself, and when the | 
pulse of feeling is beating higher or lower in | 
consequence of ‘some apparently trifling cir- 


In these and innumerable instances of a 
similar nature, the woman of tact not only 


TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 


anaes mie 


perceives the variations which are constantly 
taking place in the atmosphere of social life, 
but she adapts herself to them with a facility 
which the law of love enables her to carry 
out, so as to spare her friends the pain and 
annoyance which so frequently arise out of 
the mere mismanagement of familiar and 
apparently unimportant affairs. And how 
often do these seeming trifles— 


“ The lightly uttered, careless word’’--- 


the wrong construction put upon a right 
meaning—the accidental betrayal of what 
there would have been no duplicity in con- 
cealing—how often do these wound us more 
than direct unkindness ! Even the young feel 
this sometimes too sensitively for their own 
peace. But while the tears they weep in 
private attest the severity of their sorrow, let 


| them not, like the misanthrope, turn back 


with hatred or contempt upon the world 


| which they suppose to have injured them ; 


but let them rather learn this wholesome Jes- 
son, by their own experience, so to meet the 
peculiarities of those with whom they asso- 
ciate, as to soften down the asperities of tem- 
per, to heal the wounds of morbid feeling, 
and to make the current of life run smoothly, 
so far as they have power to cast the oil of 
peace upon its waters. 

Such then is the general use of tact. Par- 
ticular instances of its operation would be too 
minute, and too familiar, to occupy, with pro- 
priety, the pages of a book; for, like many 
other female excellences, it is more valued, 
and better understood, by the loss a character 
sustains without it, than by any definite form 
it assumes, even when most influential upon 
the conversation and conduct. This valu- 
able acquirement, however, can never be at- 
tained without the cultivation in early life of 
habits of close observation. It is not upon 


the notes of a piece of music only, not upon 
a pattern of fancy-work, nor even upon the 
pages ofan interesting book, that the atten- 
tion must alone be brought to bear; but upon 
\| things in general, so that the faculty of obser- 
vation shall become so sharpened by constant 
use, that nothing can escape it. 


49 


Far be it from me to recommend that idle 
and vulgar curiosity, which peeps about 
without a motive, or, worse than that, with a 
view to collect materials forscandal. Obser- 
vation isa faculty which may be kept perpet- 
ually at work, without intrusion or offence 
to others; and at the same time, with infinite 
benefit to ourselves. very object in crea- 
tion, every sound, every sensation, every pro- 
duction either of nature or of art, supplies 
food for observation, while observation in its 
turn supplies food for thought. I have been 
astonished in my association with young 
ladies, at the very few things they appear to 
have to think about. Generally speaking, 
they might be all talked up in the course of 
a week. And what is the consequence? It 
is far beyond a jest, for the consequence too 
frequently is, that they grow weary of them- 
selves, then weary of others, and lastly wea- 
ry of life—of life, that precious and immortal 
gift, which they share with angels, and which 
to them, as to the angelic host, has been 
bestowed in order that therewith they may 
glorify the gracious Giver. 

Now, this very weariness, which at the 
same time is the most prevalent disease, and 
the direst calamity, we find among young 
women; since it not only makes them use- 
less and miserable, but drives them perpetual- 
ly into excitement as a momentary relief— 
this weariness arises out of various causes 
with which young people are not sufficiently 
made acquainted, and one of the most power- 
ful of which is, a neglect of the habit of ob- 
servation. 

“J have seen nobody, and heard nothing 
to-day,” is the vapid remark of one to whom 
the glorious heavens, and the fruitful earth, 
might as well be so much paint and patch- 
work. 
exclaims another, who has never looked a 
second time at some fine expressive counte- 
nance, where deep feeling tells its own im- 
passioned story. 


whose household library is stored with books, 
and whose parents have within themselves 
a fund of intelligence, which they would be 


“What an uninteresting person !’ 


“J wish some one would. 
come and invite us out to tea,” says a third, 


| 


* atl ele SRR Pe. ti 


but too happy to communicate, could they 
find an attentive listener in their child. “ But 
my life is so monotonous,” pleads a fourth, 
‘and my range of vision so limited, that I 
have nothing to observe.” With those who 
live exclusively in towns, I confess this ar- 
gument might have some weight; and for 
this reason, I suppose it is, that town-bred 
young women are often more ignorant than 
those who spend a portion of their early life 
in the country—not certainly because there 
is really less to be observed in towns, but be- 
cause the mind, in the midst of a multitude 
of moving images, is comparatively unim- 
pressed by any. I confess, too, there is some- 


thing in the noise and tumult of a crowded | 


city, which stupifies the mind, and blunts its 
perception of individual things, until the 
whole shifting pageant assumes the charac- 
ter of some vast panorama, upon which we 
look, only with regard to the whole, and for- 
getful of each individual part. 

“Jt is true, I have taken my accustomed 
walk in the city,” observes a fifth young wo- 
man, “but I have found nothing to think 
about.” What! was there nothing to think 
about in the squalid forms of want and misery 
which met you at every turn ?—nothing in the 
disappointed look of the patient mendicant 
as you passed him by !—nothing in the pale 
and half-clad mother, seated on the step at 
the rich man’s door, folding her infant to her 
bosom, and shrouding it with the “ wings of 
care ?’—-was there nothing in all that was 
doing among those busy thousands, for sup- 
plying the common wants of man; the droves 
of weary animals goaded, stupified, or mad- 
dened, none of which would ever tread 
again the greensward on the mountain’s side, 
or slake its thirst beside the woodland brook ? 
—was there nothing in the bold and beauti- 
ful charger, the bounding steed, or the sleek 
and well-fed carriage-horse, contrasted with 
the galled and lacerated victims of oppres- 
sion, waiting for their round of agony to 
come again ?—was there nothing in the vast- 
ness of man’s resources, the variety of his 
inventions, the power of combined effort, as 
displayed in that perpetual succession of lux- 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


uries both for the body and the mind ?1—was 
there nothing in that aspect of order and in- 
dustry, so important to individual, as well as 
national prosperity 7—was there nothing, in 
short, in that mighty mass of humanity, or in 
the millions of pulses beating there, with 
health or sickness, weal or wo ?—was there 
nothing in all this to think about? Why, 
one of our late poets was wont to weep as he 
walked along Fleet-street arid the Strand ; so 
intense were his sympathies with that mov- 
ing host of fellow-beings. And can young 
and sensitive women be found to pass over 
the same ground, and say they find nothing 
to think about? Still less could we expect 
to meet with a being thus impervious in the 
country ; for there, if human nature pleases 
not, she may find 


¢_______books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.” 


Whether it arises from an intellectual, or a 
moral defect, that this happy experience is 
so seldom realized, is a question of some im- 
portance in the formation of character. If 
young ladies really do not wish to be close 
observers, the evil is a moral one, and I can- 
not but suspect that much truth lies here. 
They wish, undoubtedly, to enjoy every 
amusement which can be derived from ob- 
servation, but they do not wish to observe ; 
because they either have some little pet sor- 
row which they prefer brooding over to them- 
selves, or some favorite subject of gossip, 
which they prefer talking over with their 
friends, or they think it more ladylike not to 
notice common things, or more interesting to. 
be absorbed, to start when spoken to, and to 
spend the greatest portion of their time in a 
state of revery. 

If such be the choice of any fair reader of 
these pages, I can only warn her that the 
punishment of her error will eventually come 
upon her, and that as surely as she neglects 
in youth to cultivate the expansive and pleas- 
ure-giving faculty of observation, so surely 
will life become wearisome to her in old age, 
if not before. There are, however, many 
whose error on this point arises solely out of 


TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 


their ignorance of the innumerable advan- 
tages to be derived from a close observation 
of things in general. Their lives are void of 
interest, their minds run to waste, they are 
constantly pining for excitement, without 
being conscious of any definite cause for 
what they suffer. They see their more en- 
ergetic and intelligent companions anima- 
ted, interested, and amused, with something 
which they are consequently most anxious to 
be made acquainted with, supposing it will 
afford the same pleasure to them; when, to 
their astonishment, they find it only some ob- 
ject which has for a long time met their daily 
gaze, without ever having made an impres- 
sion upon their own minds, or excited a single 
idea in connection with it. To such individ- 
uals it becomes a duty to point out, as far as 
we are able, the obstacles which stand in the 
way of their deriving that instruction and 
amusement from general and individual ob- 
servation, which would fill up the void of 
their existence, and render them at the same 
time more companionable and more happy. 


There is a word in our language of most 
incaplivable meaning, Which by universal con- 


sent has become a sort of test-word among 
young ladies, and by which they try the 
worth of every thing, as regards its claim 
upon their attention. I mean the word in- 
teresting. In vain have I endeavored to at- 
tach any definite sense to this expression, as 
generally used by the class of persons ad- 
dressed in this work. I can only conjecture 


that its signification is synonymous with ex-. 


citing, and that it is applicable to all which 
awakens sentiment, or produces emotion. 
However this may be, the fact that a person 
or thing is considered among young ladies as 
uninteresting, stamps it with irremediable 
obloquy, so that it is never more to be spoken, 
or even thought of; while, on the other 
hand, whatever is pronounced to be interest- 
ing, is considered worthy of their utmost at- 
tention, even though it should possess no 
other recommendation ; and thus not only 
heroes and heroines, but books, letters, con- 
versation, speeches, meetings public and pri- 
vate, friends, and even lovers, are tried by 


—————— SS 
51 


this universal test, and if they fail here, wo 
betide the luckless candidate for femalé fa- 
vor! 

Of those who have hitherto been slaves to’ 
this all-potent word, I would now ask one 
simple question—Is it not possible to create 
their own world of interest out of the mate- 
rials which Providence has placed before 
them? or must they by necessity follow in 
the train of those who languish after the ex- 
citement of fictitious sorrow, or who luxuri- 
ate in the false sentiment of immoral books, 
and the flattery of unprincipled men, simply 
because they find them interesting ? 

Never has there been a delusion more in- 
sidious, or more widely spread, than that 
which arises out of the arbitrary use of this 
dangerous and deceitful word, as it obtains 
among young women. Ask one of them why 
she cannot read a serious book ; she answers, 
“the style is so uninteresting.” Ask another 
why she does not attend a public meeting for 
the benefit of her fellow-creatures; she an- 
swers that “such meetings have lost their 
interest.’ Ask a third why she does not 
make a frivud of her sister; she tells you 
that her sister “ does notinterest”” her. And 
so on, through the whole range of public and 
private duty, for there is no call so impera- 
tive, and no claim so sacred, as to escape 
being submitted to this test : and on the other 
hand, no sentiment that cannot be reconciled, 
no task that cannot be undertaken, and no 
companionship that cannot be borne with, 
under the recommendation of having been 
introduced in an interesting manner. 

Of all the obstacles which stand in the 
way of that exercise of the faculty of obser- 
vation, which I would so earnestly recom- 
mend, I believe there is none so great as the 
importance which is attached to the word 
“interesting,” among young women. Upon 
whatever interests them, they are sufficiently 
ready to employ their powers of observation ; 
but with regard to what does not, they pass 
through the pleasant walks of daily life, as if 
surrounded by the dreary wastes of a desert. 
Of want of memory, too, they are apt to 
complain, and from the frequency with which 


52 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


this grievance is spoken of, and the little ef- 
fort that is made against it, one would rather 
suppose it an embellishment to the character 
than otherwise, to be deficient in the power 
of recollecting. It is a fact, however, which 
personal experience has not been able to con- 
trovert, that whatever we really observe, we 
are able to remember. Ask one of these fair 
complainers, for instance, who laments her 
inability to remember, what colored dress was 
worn by some distinguished belle, for what 
piece of music she herself obtained the most 
applause, or what subject was. chosen by 
some beau-ideal of a speaker, and it is more 
than probable her memory will not be found 
at fault, because these are the things upon 
which she has employed her observation ; 
and, had the subjects themselves been of a 
higher order, an equal effort of the same use- 
ful faculty, would have impressed them in 
the same imperishable characters upon her 
memory. _ 

After considering the subject in this point 
of view, how important does it appear that 
we should turn our attention to the power 
which exists in every human being, aud 
especially during the season of youth, of cre- 
ating a world of interest for themselves, of 
deviating so far from the tendency of popu- 
lar taste, as sometimes to leave the Corsairs 
of Byron to the isles of Greece, and the Gyp- 
sies of Scott to the mountains of his native 
land; and while they look into the page of 


| actual life, they will find that around them, in 


their daily walks, beneath the parental roof, 
or mixing with the fireside circle by the 
homely hearth, there are often feelings as 
deep, and hearts as warm, and experience 
as richly fraught with interest, as ever glowed 


Fin verse, or lived in story. There is not, 


there cannot be any want of interest in the 
exercise of the sympathies of our nature 
upon common things, when no novel has 
ever exhibited scenes of deeper emotion, 
than observation has revealed to every hu- 
man being, whose perceptions have been 
habitually alive to the claims of weak and 
suffering humanity; nor has fiction ever por- 
trayed such profound wretchedness as we 


the poor and simple-hearted 1 


may daily find among the poor and the de- 
praved; and not wretchedness alone, for 
what language of mimic feeling has ever 
been found to equal the touching pathos of 
Nay, so far 
does imagination fall short of reality, that the 
highest encomium we can pass upon a wri- 
ter of fiction, is, that his expressions are 
“true to nature.” 

This is what we may find every day in 
actual life, if we will but look for it—intensi- 


ty of feeling under all its different forms; | 


the mother’s tender love; the father’s high 

ambition; hope in its early bud, its first 
7 . : 

blight, and its final extinction; the joy of 


youth; the helplessness of old age; pa- 


tience under suffering; disinterested zeal ; 
strong faith, and calm resignation. And 
shall we say that we feel no interest in reali- 
ties of which the novel and the drama are 
but feeble imitations? It is true that heroes 
and heroines do not strike upon their hearts, 
or fall prostrate, or tear their hair before us, 
every day; but I repeat again, that the touch- 


ing pathos of true feeling, which all may be- 
come acquainted with, 1f they will emmipluy 


their powers of observation upon human life 


as it exists around us, has nothing to equal it 
in poetry or fiction. If, then, we would turn 
our attention to human life as it is, and em- 
ploy our powers of observation upon com- 
mon things, we should find a never-failing 
source of interest, not only in the sympathies 
of our common nature, but in all which dis- 


plays the wisdom and goodness of the Cre- 


ator; for this ought ever to be our highest 
and ultimate aim in the exercise of every 
faculty we possess, to perceive the impress 
of the finger of God upon all which his will 
has designed, or his hand has created. ' 

All I have yet said on this subject, how- 
ever, has reference only to the benefit, or the 
enjoyment, of the individual who employs 
the faculty of observation. The law of love 
directs us to a happier and holier exercise of 
this faculty. No one can be truly kind, with- 
out having accustomed themselves in early 
life to habits of close observation. They 
may be kind in feeling, but never in effect ; 


— AS 


ml; 


rT | 


for kindness is always estimated, not by the 


TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 


53 


peculiar temper of her husband’s mind, as 


good it desires, but by that which it actually | well as to discover the characteristic peculiar- 


produces. A woman who isa close observer, 
under the influence of the law of love, knows 
so well what belongs to social and domestic 
comfort, that she never enters a room occu- 
pied by a family whose happiness she has at 
heart, without seeing in an instant every tri- 
fle upon which that comfort depends. If the 
sun is excluded when it would be more cheer- 
ful to let it shine in—if the cloth is not spread 
at the right time for the accustomed meal— 


these things, will be more likely to lose the 
point of a clever remark, and to fail to per- 
ceive the most interesting features in the so- 
ciety with which she associates. The facul- 
ty of observation is the same, whatever ob- 
ject it may be engaged upon; and that which 
is minute, may sharpen its powers, and stim- 
ulate its exercise, as well as that which is 


if the fire is low, or the hearth unswept—if | more important, 


the chairs are not standing in the most invi- 
ting places, her quick eye detects in an instant 
what is wanting to complete the general air 
of comfort and order which it is woman’s bu- 
siness to diffuse over her whole household ; 
while, on the other hand, if her attention has 
never been directed to any of these things, she 
enters the room without looking around her, 
and sits down to her own occupations with- 


out once perceiving that the servants are be- 


hindhand with the breakfast, that the blinds 
are still down on a dark winter’s morning, 
that a window is still open, that a chair is 
standing with its back to the fender, that the 
fire is smoking for want of better arrange- 
ment, or that a corner of the hearth-rug <s 
turned up. 


With regard to kindness, it is impossible 
so to adapt our expressions of good-will, as 
to render them acceptable, unless we minute- 
ly observe the characters, feelings, and situa- 
tion of those around us. Inappropriate kind- 
ness is not only a waste of good things, it is 
sometimes an annoyance—nay, even an of- 
fence to the sensitive and fastidious, because 
it proves that the giver of the present, or the 
actor in the intended benefit has been more 
solicitous to display his own generosity, than 
to promote their real good; or he might have 
seen, that, with their habits, tastes, and pecu- 
liarities, such an act must be altogether useless. 

A woman wanting the habit of cbserva- 
tion, though influenced by the kindest feel- 
ings, will be guilty of a vast amount of in- 


Now, provided all other things are equal, | consistencies, which, summed up together by 


which of these two women would be the 


those whom they have offended, will, in time, 


most agreeable to sit down with? The an- | obtain for her the reputation of being any 


swer is clear; yet, nothing need be wanting 


thing but kind in her treatment of others. 


in the last, but the habit of observation, to | Such, for instance, as walking away at a 


It 


render her a more inviting companion. 


brisk pace, intent upon her own business, 


may perhaps be surmised, if not actually | and leaving behind some delicate and nerv- 
said, of the other, that her mind must be. | ous invalid to endure all the mortification of 


filled with trifles, to enable her habitually to | neglect. 


When told of her omission, she 


see such as are here specified; but it is a | may hasten back, make a thousand apolo- 


fact confirmed by experience, and knowledge 
of the world, that a quick and close observa- 
tion of little things, by no means precludes 


gies, and feel really grieved at her own con- 
duct; but she will not easily convince the in- 
valid that it would not have shown more real 


observation of greater ; and that the woman | kindness to have observed from the first that 


who cannot comfortably sit down until all 
these trifling matters are adjusted, will be 
more likely than another, whose faculties 
have not been thus exercised, to perceive, 


she was left behind. No; there is no way 
of being truly kind, without cultivating habits 
of observation. Nor will such habits come 
to our aid in after life, if they have been 


by an instantaneous glance of the eye, the | neglected in youth. Willingness to oblige, is 


aa Tae 3 aw 


54 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


‘not all that is wanted, or this might supply 
the defect. Where this willingness exists 
without observation, how often will a well- 
meaning person start up with a vague con- 
sciousness of some omission, look about with 
awkward curiosity to see what is wanted, 
blunder upon the right thing at the wrong 
time, and then sit down again, after having 
made every one else uncomfortable, and him- 
self ridiculous! 

In connection with the habit of observa- 
tion, how much real kindness may be prac- 
tised, even by the most insignificant mem- 
ber of a family! I have seen a little child, 
far too diffident to speak to the stranger- 
guest, still watch his plate at table with such 
assiduity, that no wish remained ungratified, 
simply from having just what the child per- 
ceived he most wanted, placed silently beside 
him. 

From this humble sphere of minute obser- 
vation, men are generally and very properly 
considered as excluded. But to women they 
look, and shall they look in vain, for the fill- 
ing up of this important page of human ex- 
perience? Each particular item of the ac- 
count may be regarded as beneath their 
notice ; but well do they know, and deeply 
do they regret, if the page is left blank, or if 
the sum-total is not greatly to their advan- 
tage. 

Observation and attention are so much the 
same in their results, that I shall not consider 
them separately, but only add a few remarks 
on the subject of attention as it applies to 
reading. 

There is no social pleasure, among those 
it has been my lot to experience, which I 
esteem more highly than that of listening to 

an interesting book well read; when a fire- 
side circle, chiefly composed of agreeable and 
intelligent women, are seated at their work. In 
the same way asthe lonely traveller, after gain- 
ing some lofty eminence, on the opening of 
| some lovely valley, or the closing of some 
sunset scene, longs to see the joy he is then 
feeling reflected in the face of the being he 
loves best on earth; so, a great portion of 
the enjoyment of reading, as experienced by 


a social disposition, depends upon the same 
impressions being made upon congenial minds 
at the same time. J have spoken of an in- 
teresting book, well read, because I think the 
art of reading aloud is far too rarely culti- 
vated; and I have often been astonished at 
the deficiency which exists on this point, 
after what is called a finished education. 

To my own feelings, the easy and judi- 
cious reading of a well-written book, on a 


favorite subject, is even more delightful than 


music ; because it supplies the mind with 
ideas, at the same time that it gratifies the 
ear and the taste. Little do they know of 
this pleasure, who pass in and out of a room 
unnecessarily, or who whisper about their 
thimble or their thread, while this music of 
the mind is thrilling the souls of those who 
understand it; and little do they know of 
social enjoyment, who prefer poring over the 
pages of a book alone, rather than allowing 
others to share their pleasure at the same 
time. Iam aware that many books may be 
well worth reading alone, which are not cal- 
culated for general reading ; and Iam aware 
also, that every fireside circle is not capable 
of appreciating this gratification: but I speak 
of those which are; and I think that wo- 
man, as a peculiarly social being, should be 
careful to arrange and adjust such affairs, as 
to create the greatest amount of social pleas- 
ure. Of this, however, hereatter. 

It is more to my present purpose, to speak 
of those habits of inattention to which many 
young persons unscrupulously yield, when- 
ever a book is read aloud. It may be re- 
marked, as a certain proof of their want of 
interest, when they rise to leave the room, 
and request the reader not to wait for them; 
for though politeness may require some con- 
cession on their part, it is a far higher com- 
pliment to the reader, and indeed to the 
company in general, to evince an interest so 
great, than rather than lose any part of 
the book, they will ask, as a personal favor, 
that the reading of it may be suspended until 
their return, provided only their absence is 
brief. I have often felt with sympathy for 
the reader on these occasions, the disap- 


Were 


Pail 


pointment he must experience when assured 
by one of his audience, that to her at least 
his efforts to give pleasure, and excite inter- 
est, have been in vain. 

Beyond this there is a habit of secretanat- 
tention, of musing upon other things when- 
ever a book is read aloud, which grows upon 
the young, until they lose the power to com- 
mand their attention, even when they would. 
This, however, I imagine to arise in great 


measure out of the want of cultivating the’ 


art of reading ; for the monotonous tone we 
so frequently hear, the misplaced emphasis, 
and, worse than all, the affectation of reading 
well, when the reader and not the book is 
too evidently intended to be noticed, are of 
themselves sufficient to repel attention, and 
to excite a desire to do any thing rather than 
listen. 

Truly has it been said, that “the sport of 
musing is the waste of life,” for though oc- 
casional seasons of mental retirement are 
profitable to all, the habit of endless and 
aimless revery, which some young persons 
indulge in, is as destructive to mental energy, 
as to practical usefulness! Hour after hour 
glides on with them unmarked, while thought 
is just kept alive by a current of undefined 
images flowing through the mind—And 
what remains? “A weary, stale, flat, and 
unprofitable” existence; as burdensome to 
themselves, as unproductive of good to 
others. 

As a defence against the encroachments of 
this insidious enemy, it is good to be in earn- 
est about every thing we do—earnest in our 
studies—earnest in our familiar occupations— 
earnest in our attachments—but above all, 
earnest in our duties. There is a listless, 
dreamy, halfish way of acting, which evades 
the stigma of direct indolence, but which 
never really accomplishes one laudable pur- 
pose, Enthusiasm is the direct opposite of 
this; but in the safe medium between this 
extreme and enthusiasm, is that earnestness 
which I would recommend to all young per- 
sons asa habit. Enthusiasm, to the mind of 
youth, is vastly more taking than sober earn- 
estness ; yet, when we look to the end, how 


ee 


TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 


. astray, that resolution cannot be fixed, that 


5d 


often do we find that the one is discouraged 
by difficulties, and finally diverted from its 
object, where the other perseveres, and ulti- 
mately succeeds ! 

Habitual earnestness is directly opposed to 
habitual trifling; and this latter may truly 
be said to be the bane of woman’s life. To 
be in earnest is to go steadily to work with 
whatever we undertake; counting the cost, 
and weighing the difficulty, and still enga- 
ging in the task, assured that the end to be 
attained will repay us for every effort we 
make. ‘To do one thing and think about 
another, to begin and not go on, to change 
our plan so often as to defeat our purpose, or 
to act without having formed a plan at all, | 
this it is to trifle, and consequently to waste | 
both time and effort. 

By cultivating habitual earnestness in 
youth, we acquire the power of bringing all 
the faculties of the mind to bear upon any 
given point, whenever we have a purpose to 
accomplish. We do not then find, at the 
time we want to act, that attention has gone 


fancy has scattered the materials with which’ || 
we were to work, that taste refuses her sanc- 
tion, that inclination rebels, or that industry 
chooses to be otherwise engaged. No; such 
is the power of habit, that, when accustomed 
from early youth to be in earnest in what- 
ever we do, no sooner does an opportunity 
for making any laudable effort occur, than all 
these faculties and powers are ready at our 
call; and with their combined and willing 
aid, how much may be attained either for 
ourselves or others! 

The great enemy we have to encounter, 
both in the use of the faculty of observation, 
and in the cultivation of habits of earnest- 
ness, is indolence; an enemy which besets 
our path from infancy to age, which stands 
in the way of all our best endeavors, and 
even when a good resolution has been 
formed, persuades us to delay the execution 
of it. Could we prevail upon the young to 
regard this enemy as it really is—a greedy 
monster, following upon their steps, and ever 


grasping out of their possessign, their time, 


Lae 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


with in their leisure hours—what a service 
would be done to the whole human race ! for, 
to thore who have been the willing slaves of 
indolence in youth, it will most assuredly be- 
come the tyrant of old age. 

The season of youth, then, is the time to 
oppose this enemy with success; and those 
who have quickened their powers of obser- 
vation by constant exercise, and applied 
themselves with habitual earnestness to un- 
remitting efforts of attention and industry, 
will be in no danger of finding life, as it ad- 
vances, either uninteresting or wearisome ; 
or their own portion of experience destitute 
of utility and enjoyment. 


CHAPTER IV. 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND. TEMPER. 


THESE are personal qualifications univer- 
sally considered to be of great importance to 
the female sex; yet is there something sad 
in the contemplation of the first of these, so 
great is the disproportion between the esti- 
mation in which it is regarded by young 
people in general, and its real value in the 
ageregate of human happiness. Indeed, 
when we think of its frailty, its superficial 
character, and the certainty of its final and 
utter extinction—and connect these consider- 
ations with the incalculable amount of am- 
bition, envy, and false applause, which beauty 
has excited—we should rather be inclined to 
consider it a bane than a blessing to the hu- 
man race. 

Female beauty has ever been the theme of 
inspiration with poets, and with heroes, since 
the world began ; and for all the sins and the 
follies, and they are many, for which beauty 
has formed the excuse, has not man been the 
abettor, if not the cause? Of his habitual 
and systematic treachery to his weak sister 
on this one point, what page, what book 
shall contain the record? Would that some 


their talents, and their strength,—instead of a 
pleasant fireside companion, to be dallied 


pen more potent than ever yet was wielded 
by a human hand, would transcribe the dark 
history, and present it to his view ; for hap- 
py, thrice happy will be that era, if it shall 
ever, come, in the existence of woman, when 
man shall be true -to her real interests, and 
when he shall esteem it his highest privilege 
to protect her—not from enchanted castles, 
from jealous rivals, or from personal foes, 
but from the more insidious and fatal ene- 
mies which lurk within her own heart—from 
vanity, from envy, and from love of admira- 
tion. . 

To prove that I lay no unfounded charge 
at the door of man in this respect, let us look 
into society as it is. Thé beautiful woman ! 
What court is paid to her! What extrava- 
gances are uttered and committed by those 
who compose her circle of admirers! She 
opens her lips: men of high intellectual pre- 
tensions are proud to listen. Some trifling 
or vapid remark is all she utters. They ap- 
plaud, if she attempts to be judicious; they 
laugh, if she aims at being gay; or they 
evince the most profound reverence for her 
sentiments, if the tone of her expression is 
grave. Listen to the flattery they offer at the 
shrine of this idol of an hour. No! it is too 
gross, too absurd for repetition. One thing, 
however, makes it serious. Such flattery is 
frequently at the expense of rivals, and even 
of friends; so that, while these admirers 
foster vanity, they are not satisfied without 
awaking the demon of envy in a soul, an 
immortal soul, which it ought to have been 
their generous and noble aim to shield from 
every taint of evil, and especially from so 
foul a taint as that of envy. 

But let us turn to another scene in the 
drama of society. The very same men are 
disclaiming their unsuccessful efforts to ob- 
tain the favor of this beauty, and ridiculing 
the emptiness and the folly of the remarks 
they so lately applauded. ‘Time passes on. 
The beauty so worshipped begins to wane. 
Other stars shine forth in the hemisphere, 
and younger belles assert superior claims to 
admiration. Who, then, remains of all that 
prostrate circle? Not one! They are all 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 


gone over to the junior claimant, and are 
laughing with her at the disappointment of 
the faded beauty. 

This is a dark and melancholy picture, but 
for its truth I appeal to any who have mixed 
much in general society, who have either 
been beautiful themselves, or the confidants 
of beauty, or who have been accustomed to 
hear the remarks of men on these subjects, 
when no beauty was present. I might ap- 
peal also to the fact, that personal beauty 
among women alone, receives no exaggera- 
ted or undue homage. Were there no men 
in the world, female beauty would be valued 
as a charm, but by no means as one of the 
highest order; and happily for women, an 
idea prevails among them, that those who 
want this charm, have the deficiency made 
up to them in talent, or in some other way. 

Still, there is so natural and irresistible a 
delight in gazing upon beauty, that I never 
could understand the philosophy of those 
moralists who would endeavor to keep from 
a lovely girl, the knowledge that she was so. 
Her mirror is more faithful, and unless that 


be dostroyod, tho dangor is, that she will 


suspect such moral managers of some sinis- 
ter design in endeavoring to deceive her on 
this point, and that, in consequence, she will 
be put upon thinking still more of the value 
of a gift, with the possession of which she is 
not to be trusted. Far wiser is the part of 
that counsellor of youth, who, convinced that 
much of the danger attendant upon beauty, 


| as a personal recommendation, arises out of 


low and ignorant views of the value of beau- 
ty itself, thus endeavors to show the folly of 
attaching importance to that which the touch 
of disease may at any hour destroy, and 
which time must inevitably efface. 

~ The more the mind is expanded and en- 
lightened, the more it is filled with a sense of 
what is admirable in the creation at large; 
and the more it is impressed with the true 
image of moral beauty, the less it will be oc- 


-cupied with the consideration of any personal 
claim to flattery or applause. There will al- 


ways be a circle of humble candidates for fa- 
vor surrounding the unguarded steps of youth, 


o7 


whose influence will be excited on the side 
of personal beauty, perhaps more than in 
any other way. Without disrespect to the 
valuable class of servants, to which I allude, 
for lam convinced they know not what. they 
do, 1 must express my fears, that they are 
often busily at work upon the young mind, 
long before the age of womanhood, instilling 
into it their own low views of beauty as a 
personal distinction; and itis against this in- 
fluence, more especially as it begins the earli- 
est, that I would call up all the power of mor- 
al and intellectual expansion, in order to fill 
the mind as early as possible with elevated 
thoughts of the creation in general, and of 
admiration for that part of it which is sepa- 
rate from self. 

A being thus enlightened, will perceive that 
admiration is one of the higher faculties of 
our nature unknown to the brute creation, 
and one, the lawful exercise of which, affords 
us perhaps more enjoyment than any other. 
Upon the right employment of this faculty 
depends much of the moral tendency of hu- 
man character. It is, therefore, of the utmost 


ipurtauve Mat wa‘chnanld learn in carly life 
to admire only what is truly excellent; and 
as there is an excellence of beauty, which it 
is consonant with the higher attributes of our 
nature that we should admire, it necessarily 
follows, that to search for beauty as an es- 
sence pervading the universe, is an employ- 
ment not unworthy of an intelligent and im- 
mortal being. 
Let us then examine, so far as we are able 
to do so, “the treasures of earth, ocean, and 
air ;’’ and we shall see that it has pleased the 
all-wise Creator, to diffuse the principle of 
beauty over every region of the world. The 
deep sea, into whose mysterious caves no 
human eye can penetrate, is full of it. The 
blue ether, and the sailing clouds, sun, moon, 
and stars, are they not beautiful? and the 
fruitful garden of the earth, wherever nature 
smiles ? . 


“ How beautiful is all this visible world!” ~ 


Not beautiful in its brightness and sublimity 
alone, but beautiful wherever the steps of 


58 


Deity have trod—wherever the hand of the 
divine artificer has been employed, from the 
golden glory of a sunset cloud, to the gossa- 
mer thread on which are strung the pearls of 
morning dew. 

Now, let me ask whether a mind, habitually 
engaged in the contemplation of subjects such 
as these, would be likely to be diverted from 
its noble but natural exercise, by vulgar cal- 
culations upon the comparative beauty of a 
face? No. It would be perfectly aware, 
where such beauty did exist; but it would 
also be impressed with the important fact, 
that in relation to the wondrous and magnifi- 
cent whole, its own share of beauty consti- 
tuted so small a part, as scarcely to be worthy 
of a passing thought. 

Those who are accustomed to enlightened 
views on this subject, will know also that 
there are different kinds of personal beauty, 
among which, that of form and coloring holds 
a very inferior rank. There is a beauty of 
expression, for instance, of sweetness, of no- 
bility, of intellectual refinement, of feeling, of 
animation, of meekness, of resignation, and 


many other kinds of beauty, which may all 
be allied to the plainest features, and yet may 


remain, to give pleasure long after the bloom- 
ing cheek has faded, and silver gray has 
mingled with the hair. And how far more 
powerful in their influence upon others, are 
some of these kinds of beauty! for, after all, 
beauty depends more upon the movements 
of the face, than upon the form of the features, 
when at rest ; and thus, a countenance habit- 
ually under the influence of amiable feelings 
acquires a beauty of the highest order, from 
the frequency with which such feelings are 
the originating cause of the movements or 
expressions which stamp their character 
upon it. 

Who has not waited for the first opening 
of the lips of a celebrated belle, to see whether 
her claims would be supported by 


“'The mind, the music breathing from her face ;”’ 


and who has not occasionally turned away 
repelled by the utter blank, or worse than 
blank, which the simple movement of the 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


mouth, in speaking, or smiling, has re- 
vealed? 

The language of poetry describes the loud 
laugh as indicative of the vulgar mind; and 
certainly there are expressions, conveyed 
even through the medium of a smile, which 
need not Lavater to inform us that refine- 
ment of feeling, or elevation of soul, have 
little to do with the fair countenance on which 
they are impressed. On .the other hand, 
there are plain women sometimes met with 
in society, every movement of whose features 
is instinct with intelligence; who, from the 
genuine heart-warm smiles which play about 
the mouth, the sweetly modulated voice, and 
the lighting up ofan eye that looks as if it 
could “comprehend the universe,’ become 
perfectly beautiful to those who understand 
them, and still more so to those who live with 
them, and love them. Before such preten- 
sions to beauty as these, how soon do the 
pink and white of a merely pretty face vanish 
into nothing! iy : 

Yet, if the beauty of expression should be 
less popular among women, from the circum- 


stance of its being less admired by men than 
that of mere form and complexion, they do 


well in this, as in every other disputed ques- 
tion of ultimate good, to look to the end. Men 
have been found whose admiration of beauty 
was so great, that they have actually married 


_for that alone, content, for its sake, to dis- 


pense with the presence of mind. And what 
has been the end to them, or rather to the 
luckless beings whose misfortune it was to 
be the objects of their choice 1—A neglected 
and degraded lot, embittered by the fretful- 
ness of disappointment on the part of their 
husbands ; while, on the other hand, women, 
whose attractions have been of a more intel- 
lectual nature, have maintained their hold upon 
the affections of their companions, through 
life, even to the unlovely season of old age. 

But, in addition to the insufficiency of 
mere beauty, there is another cause why 
men are so frequently disappointed in select- 
ing merely pretty wives. They have a 
habit of supposing that if a woman is pretty, 
and not very clever, she must be amiable. 


Yet, how often do we find that the most 
wayward temper, the most capricious will, 
and beyond all calculation the most provok- 
ing habits, are connected with a weak and 
unenlightened mind. And added to all this, 
there is the false position the young beauty 
has held in society, the flattery to which she 
has been exposed, the dominion she has 
been permitted to assert, the triumph she has 
been accustomed to feel over others, the 
strength her inclinations from constant: in- 
dulgence have attained—all these have to be 
contended with, in addition to the incapacity 
of her imbecile and undisciplined mind ; and 
surely of this catalogue of evils, any one 
might be sufficient to counterbalance the 
advantages of mere personal beauty. in a 
companion for life—a campanion who is to 
tread with her husband the rough road of 
experience, and whose influence upon his 
character and feelings will not end on this 
side the grave. 

Let us, however, not think hardly of the 
feeble-minded beauty, simply as such. She 

is as little to be blamed for the natural imbe- 
|| cility of her mental powers, as to be com- 
|| mended for her personal charms. Both are 
“11 to her the appointments of a wise Provi- 
| dence; but as both combined are means of 
exposing her to evils for which she is really 
to be pitied, so she ought to be kindly pro- 
tected from the dangers to which she is ex- 
posed ; and since she possesses not in her- 
self sufficient perception to know, that in 
consequence of her beatity she is made to 
occupy a false position in society, from which 
she will assuredly have to descend, it be- 
comes the duty of all who have her happi- 
ness at heart, to warn her, that in her inter- 
course with the world, she must not look for 
a sincere and disinterested friend in man. 
Tam far from asserting that there are not 
instances of noble and generous-hearted 
men, who know how to be the friend of wo- 
|| man, and the protector of her true interests ; 
|| yet, such is the general tone of social inter- 
course, that these instances are lamentably 
rare. 

The most objectionable part, however, of 


ec ceeneneeeenereeeeneeeeereeee eT 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 


59 


what I would call the minor morals of social 
life, as regards the subject of female beauty, 
has not yet been alluded to. Man is sincere 
in One sense, in his admiration of real beauty 
while it lasts; and if when the ruling star 
begins to wane, he suns himself in the rays 
of another luminary, he is still faithful to 
beauty as the object of his worship, though 
the supposed divinity may be invested in a 
different shrine. If, then, his professions of 
admiration were offered only to the really 
beautiful, scarcely one woman in a hundred 
would be injured by the personal flattery of 
man. But, unfortunately, that large propor- 
tion of the female sex, who are not exactly 
pretty, nor altogether plain, are exposed to 
the same system of flattery, for charms which 
they really do not possess. I have often 
wondered whether there ever was a woman 
so destitute of personal attractions, that no 
man, at some time or other of her life, had ever 
told her she was beautiful ; and it is a well- 
known fact, that the more we doubt our pos- 
session of any particular attraction, the more 
agreeable is every assurance from others 
that such attraction does exist. 

Thus there is an endless train of mischief 
let in upon the minds of the young and inex- 
perienced, by what men are accustomed to 
regard in the light of harmless pleasantry, or 
as an almost necessary embellishment. to 
polished manners. It may be said that the 
plain woman has her glass, to which she can 
refer for never-failing truth. It is true, she 
has; but there is a vast difference between 
looking for what we do not wish to see, and for 
what we do. Besides which, when a young 
plain woman first mixes in society, she sees 
the high distinction which mere beauty ob- 
tains for its possessor, and she finds herself 
comparatively neglected and forgotten. In 
her home she is doubtless valued in propor- 
tion to her merits; but in company, what 
avail the kind and generous heart which 


beats within her bosom, the bright intelligence | 


of her- mind, the cordial response she would 
offer in return for kindness, the gratitude, 
the generous feeling which animate her soul? 
Who, in all that busy circle, cares to call forth 


any of these 1 Nay, so little do all or any of 
them avail her in society, that she begins in 
time to suspect she is perscnally repulsive ; 
and what woman of sensitive or delicate 
feelings ever conceived this idea of herself, 
without experiencing, along with it, a strange 
sense of loneliness and destitution, as if ’ex- 
cluded from the fellowship of social kindness 
--shut out from the pale of the lovely, and the 
beloved? If, then, the treacherous voice of 
man but whispers in her ear, that these hard 
thoughts about herself have no foundation, 
who can wonder if she is found too ready to 
“lay the flattering unction” to her heart? or 
who can wonder if the equanimity of her 
mind becomes disturbed by a recurrence of 
those painful doubts, occasionally to be dis- 
pelled by a recurrence of that flattery too? 
To young women thus circumstanced, I 
would affectionately say—-Beware! Beware 
of the unquiet thoughts, the disappointment, 
the rivalry, the vain competition, the fruitless 
decoration, and ali that train of evils which 
ensue from vacillating between the two ex- 
tremes of flattering hopes and mortified am- 
Go home, then, and consult your 
mirrror; no falsehood will be there. Go 
home, and find, as you have often done be- 
fore, that even without beauty, you can make 
the fireside circle happy there; nor deem 
your lot a hard one. From many dangers 
attendant upon beauty you are safe, from 


bition. 


many sorrows you are exempt; above all, 
should you become a wife, from that which 
is, perhaps, the greatest calamity in woman’s 
history, the loss of her husband’s love, be- 
cause the charms for which alone he valued 
her, have vanished. This never can be your 
experience, and so far you are blest.. 

If personal beauty beso great a good as 
men persuade us it is, how important does it 
become to know that there is no certain way 
of preserving this treasure but by a strict 
regard to health! We hear of the beauty 


| ofextreme delicacy, of the beauty of a slight 
| hectic, and sometimes of the beauty of con- 
| stitutional debility and languor, but who ever 


ventured to speak of the beauty of disease ? 


And yet, all these, if not treated judiciously, 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. .. 


or checked in time, will infallibly become 
disease. On the other hand, we hear of vul- 
gar health, of an unlady-like bloom, and of 
too much ‘strength, giving an air of indepen- | 
dence unbecoming to the female character. 

Sincerely wishing that all who hold these- 
sentiments may make the best use of the ad- 

vantages of illness, when it does fall to their 

lot, we will pass on to consider the advan- 

tages of health as one of the ore of 

earthly blessings. 

Perfect health was the portion of our fret 
parents while Paradise was yet untrodden, 
save by the steps of sinless men and angels. 
Since that time, it has become rarely the ex- 
perience of any of the human family to be 
altogether exempt from disease ; yet, so much 
are the sufferings of illness mitigated by the | 
skill of modern science, and the comforts of 
civilized life, that a slight degree of bodily in- 
disposition is looked upon as an evil scarcely - 
worth the pains which any systematic means 
of remedy would require. 

It is only when health is lost, and lost be-. 
yond the hope of regaining it, that we be- 
come sensible of its real value. It is then 
we tax the ingenuity of the physician, and | 
the patience of the nurse, to bring us back, 
if only so near as to stand upon the verge of 
that region of happiness from which we are 
expelled. It is then we see the folly of those 


who play upon the brink of the precipice | 
which separates this beautiful and blessed || 


region from the troubled waters below. It is | 
then we resign our wealth, our friends, our 
country, and our home, in the hope of pur-— 
chasing this treasure. It is then we feel that, 


although, when in the possession of health, | 


we neglected many opportunities of kindness, 
benevolence, and general usefulness, yet 
when deprived of this blessing, we would 
kneel at the footstool of mercy, to ask those 
opportunities. again, in order that we may 
use them better. 

In early youth, 
knowledge can be e2 
Little does the pampered child of fond and 
indulgent parents know what illness is to the 
poor and the destitute ; or what it may be to 


SS TN eT CR ET TG Fags eee a ee Se 


wever, little of this | 


Se 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 61 


her when her mother’s hand is cold and help- 
less in the tomb, and when her own head is 
no longer sheltered by a father’s roof. Thus 
we find young girls so often practising a cer- 


tain kind of recklessness, and contempt of 


health,—nay, even encouraging, I will not 
say affecting, a degree of delicacy, feebleness, 
and liability to bodily ailments, which, if they 
were not accustomed to the kindest atten- 
tions, would be the last calamity they would 
wish to bring upon themselves. How im- 
“portant is it for such individuals to remem- 
ber, that the constitution of the body, as well 
{| as that of the mind, is, in a good degree, of 
their own forming ; that the season of youth 
is the time when the seeds of disease are 
‘most. generally sown ; and that no one thus 
-circumstanced, can suffer a loss of health 
without inflicting the penalty of anxious so- 
licitude,. and, frequently, of unremitting per- 
sonal exertion, upon those by whom she is 
surrounded, or beloved! 

Fanciful and ill- disciplined young women 
are apt to think it gives them an attractive 
air, and looks like an absence of selfishness, 
to be indifferent about the preservation of 
their health ; and thus they indulge the most 
absurd capriciousness with respect to their 
diet, sometimes refusing altogether to eat at 
proper times, and eating most improperly ; 
at others, running about upon wet grass with 
_thin shoes, as if they really wished to take 
|| cold, making no difference between their 
Summer and their winter clothing, or casting 
off a warm dress for an evening party ; re- 
fusing to\ take medicine when necessary, or 
taking it unsanctioned by their parents, or 
their best advisers ; all these they appear to 
consider as most engaging features in the fe- 
male character. But there are those who 
could tell them such conduct is, in reality, the 
most consummate selfishness, because it in- 
evitably produces the effect of making them 
the objects of much. necessary attention, and 
of inflicting an endless catalogue of troubles 
’ | and anxieties upon their friends. How soon 
| does the stern discipline of life inflict its own 
punishment for this folly! but, unfortunately, 


| not soon enough, in all instances, to stop the 


progress of the host of maladies which are 
thus produced. 

Let it not for a moment be supposed, that 
I would recommend to young women over- 
solicitude on the score of health; for I be- 
lieve nothing is more likely than this to in- 
duce real or fancied indisposition. Neither 
would I presume to interfere with the proper 
province of the physician ; yet am I strongly 
disposed to think, that if the rules I am 
about to lay down were faithfully adhered to, 
that worthy and important personage would 
much less frequently be found beside the 
couch where the bloom of youthful beauty 
wastes away. 

My first rule is, to let one hour every day, 
generally two, and sometimes three, be spent 
in taking exercise in the open air, either on 
horseback, or on foot. Let no weather pre- 
vent this ; for, with strong boots, waterproof 
cloak, and umbrella, there are few situations 
where an hour’s walk, at some time or other 
of the day, may not be accomplished ; and 
when the air is damp, there is sometimes 
more need for exercise, than when it is dry. 
I am perfectly aware of the unpleasantness 
of all this, unless when regarded as a duty ; 
I am aware, too, that where the health is 
good, it appears, at times, a work of superer- 
ogation ; but I am aware, also, of the differ- 
ence there is in the state both of mind and 
body, between sitting in the house, or by the 
fire all day, and taking, during some part of 
it, a brisk and healthy walk. 

How often have I seen a restless, weary, 
discontented being, moving from chair to 
chair, finding comfort in none, and tired of 
every employment ; with contracted and un- 
easy brow, complexion dry and gray, and 
eyes that looked as if their very vision was 
scorched up ;—how often have I seen sucha 
being come in from a winter’s walk, with the 
countenance of a perfect Hebe, with the en- ! 
ergy of an invigorated mind beaming forth 
from eyes as beautiful as clear, and with 
the benevolence of a young warm heart re- 
flected in the dimpling freshness of a sunny 
smile! How pleasant is it then to resume 
the half-finished work—how refreshing the 


62 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


social meal—how inviting the seat beside the 
\| glowing hearth—how frank and free the in- 
) tercourse with those who form the circle 
\| there! And if such be the effect of one sin- 
gle walk, how beneficial must be that of ha- 
|| bitual exercise, upon the condition both of 
mind and body! 

Were it possible for human calculation to 
| sum up all the evils resulting from want of 


exercise, the catalogue would be too appal-. 


| ling. All those disorders which in common 
| parlance, and for want of a more definite and 
scientific name, are called bilious, (and, truly, 
their name is legion,) are mainly to be attrib- 
uted to this cause. 
of appetite, pains under the shoulders, side- 
ache, cold feet, and irregular circulation, pro- 
vided there is no positive disease, might, in. 
time, be remedied by systematic attention to 
exercise. Of its effect upon the temper, and 
the general tone of the mind, we have yet to 
speak ; but certain I am, that no actual ca- 
lamity inflicted upon woman, ever brought 
with it more severe or extended sufferings, 
than those which result from the habitual 
neglect of exercise. 

My next rule is, to retire early to rest. 
Wherever I meet with a pale, melancholy 
young woman, highly nervous, easily excited, 
unequal in her temper ; in the early part of 
the day languid, listless, discontented, and fit 
for nothing,—but when evening comes on, 
disposed for conversation, brisk and lively ; 
I feel morally certain, that such a one is in 
the habit of sitting up late—perhaps of 
making herself extremely interesting to her 
friends beside the midnight fire; but I know, 
also, that such a one is eminently in danger 
of having recourse to stimulants to keep up 
the activity of her mind; and that during 
more than half her life—during the morning, 
that most valuable portion of every day— 
she is of little value to society ; and well will it 
be for her friends and near connections, if her 
listlessness and discontent do not render her 
| companionship worse than valueless to them. 

My next rule is to eat regularly, so far as 
it can be done conveniently to others—at 
regular times, and in regular quantities ; and 


All headaches, want. 


this I believe to be of more consequence than | 
to be very particular about the nature of the | 
food partaken of, provided only it is simple | 
and nutritious. I know that with a sickly 
appetite, or where the constitution is under 
the influence of disease, it is impossible to do | 
this; but much may be done while in a state | 
of health, by striving against that capricious 
abstinence from food, especially in the early | 
part of the day, which by certain individuals | 
is thought rather lady-like and becoming. I 
doubt not but this may be the case, so far as _ 
it is becoming to look pale, and lady-like to 
be the object of attention—to be pleaded with 
by kind friends, and pitied by strangers ; but 
the wisdom and the utility of this system is 
what I am not the less disposed to call in | 
question. 

It is a great evil in society, that the neces- 
sary act of eating is looked upon too much 
as a luxury and an indulgence. If we re- 
garded it more as a simple act, the frequent 
recurrence of which was rendered necessary — 
by the absolute wants of the body, we should 
be more disposed to consider the proper reg- 
ulation of this act, as a duty within our 
power to neglect or attend to. We should 
consequently think little of each particular | 
portion of food set before us, and the busi- | 
ness of eating would then be despatched as |! 
a regular habit, attention to which could 
afford no very high degree of excitement or |; 
felicity, while at the same time it could not |! 
be neglected without serious injury. : 

My next rule is, to dress according to the - 
season ; a rule so simple and so obvious in | 
its relation to health, as to need no comment. 

Thus far my remarks have applied only 
to the subject of health, where it is enjoyed. |; 
The loss of health is a theme of far deeper |; 
interest, as it separates us from many of the 
enjoyments of this world, and brings: us 
nearer to the borders of the world which is 
to come. ig | 

It is a remarkable feature in connection | 
with the constitution of woman, that she is’ 
capable of enduring patience and forti- 
tude, far beyond that of the stronger sex, al- 
most every degree of bodily suffering. It is 


re 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 


true, that she is more accustomed to such 
suffering than man; it is true also that a 
slight degree of indisposition makes less dif- 
ference in her amusements and occupations 
than in his. Still there is a strength and 
a beauty in her character, when laboring un- 
der bodily affliction, of which the heroism 
of fiction affords but a feeble imitation. 
Wherever woman is the most flattered, 
courted, and indulged, she is the least ad- 
mirable ; but in seasons of trial her highest 
excellences shine forth ; and how encourag- 
ing is the reflection to the occupant of a sick- 
chamber, that while the busy circles, in which 
she was wont to move, close up her vacant 
place, and pursue their cheerful rounds as 
gaily as when she was there—that while ex- 
cluded from participation in the merry laugh, 
the social meeting, and the cordial inter- 
course of former friends, she’is not excluded 
from more intimate communion with those 
who still remain; that she can still exercise 
a moral and religious .nfluence over them, 
and deepen the impression of her affectionate 
and earnest counsel, by exhibiting the Chris- 
tian graces of patience under suffering, and 
resignation to the will of God. 

Yes, there are many enjoyments in the 
chamber of sickness—enjoyments derived 
from the absence of temptation, from proofs 
of disinterested affection, and from the un- 
speakable privilege of having the vanity of 
earthly things, and the realities of the eternal 
world, brought near, and kept continually in 
view. How are we then made acquainted 
with the hollowness of mere profession! 
{low much that appeared to us plausible 
and attractive when we mingled in society, 
is now stripped of its false coloring, and 


rendered repulsive and odious! while, on 


the other hand, how much that was lightly 
esteemed by the world in which we moved, 
is discovered to be worthy of our admi- 
ration and esteem! How much of human 
love, where we most calculated upon finding 
it, has escaped from our hold! but then, 
how much is left to succor and console us, 
from those upon whose kindness we feel to 
have but little claim! 


63 


Experience is often said to be the only | 
true teacher ; but illness often crowds an age | 
of experience into the compass of a few short 
days. Often while engaged in the active 
avocations of life, involved in its contending | 
interests, and led captive by its allurements, | 
we wish in vain that a just balance could be 
maintained between the value of the things 
of time and of eternity. It is the greatest 
privilege of illness, that, if rightly regarded, 
it adjusts this balance, and keeps it true. 
From the bed of sickness, we look back upon 
the business, which, a short time ago, ab- 
sorbed our very being. What is it then? 
A mere struggle for the food and clothing of 
a body about to mingle with the dust. We 
look back at the pleasures we have left. 
What are they? The sport of truant chil- 
dren, when they should have been learning 
to be wise and good. We look back upon 
the objects which engaged our affections. 
How is it? Have the stars all vanished 
from our heaven? Have the flowers all 
faded from our earth? How can it bet? 
Alas! our affections have been misplaced. 
We have not loved supremely only what 
was lovely in the sight of God: and merci- 
ful, most merciful is the warning voice, not 
yet too late, to tell us that He who formed 
the human heart, has an unquestionable 
right to claim his own. 

I am not one of those who would speak of 
religion as especially calculated for the cham- 
ber of sickness, and the bed of death; be- 
cause I believe it is equally important to 
choose religion as our portion in illness, as 
in health—in the bloom of youth, as on the 
border of the grave. I believe also, that in 
reality, that being is in as awful a cohdition, 
who lives on from day to day in the possess- 
ion of all temporal blessings, without religion, 
as he who pines upon a bed of suffering, 
without it. But if the necessity of religion | 
be the same, its consolations are far more 
powerfully felt, when deprived by sickness of | 
every other stay ; and often do the darkened | 
chamber, and the weary couch, display such | 
evidence of the power and the condescen- | 
sion of Divine love, that even the stranger 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


acknowledges it is better to go the house of 
mourning than of feasting. 

It is when the feeble step has trod for the 
last time upon nature’s verdant carpet, when 
the dim eye has looked its last upon the 
green earth and sunny sky, when the weary 
body has almost ached and pined its last, 
when human skill can do no more, and kind- 
ness has offered its last relief—it is then, that 
we see the perfect adaptation of the promises 
of the gospel to feeble nature’s utmost need ; 
and while we contemplate the depths of the 
Redeemer’s love, and hear in anticipation the 
welcome of angels to the pardoned sinner, 
and see upon his faded lips the smile of ever- 
lasting peace, we look from that solemn 
scene once more into the world, and wonder 
at the madness and the folly of its infatuated 
slaves. 

All these are privileges, if only to feel them 
as amere spectator; and never ought such 
scenes to be avoided on account of the pain- 
ful sympathy which the sight of human suf- 
fering naturally occasions. Young people 
are apt to think it is not their business to 
wait upon the sick, that their seniors are bet- 
ter fitted for such service, that they shall 
make some serious mistake, or create some 
inconvenience by their want of knowledge ; 
or at all events, they hold themselves ex- 
cused. Yet is there many a sweet young 
girl, who, in consequence of family affliction, 
becomes initiated in these deep mysteries of 
Christian charity, before her willing step has 
lost the playful elasticity of childhood ; and 
never did the maturer virtues of the. female 
character appear less lovely from such pre- 
cocious exercise. I should rather say, there 
was a tenderness of feeling, and a power of 


sympathy derived from early acquaintance . 


with human suffering, which remains with 
woman till the end of life, and constitutes 
alike the charm of youth and the attraction 
of old age. 

I have dwelt long upon the privileges of 
illness, both to the sufferer and her friends, 
because I believe that all which is:noble, and 
sweet, and patient, and disinterested in wo- 
man’s nature, is often thus called forth; as 


So .”"“"7—.’r-’-’-’--- —-— ren 


well as all that is most encouraging in the 
exemplification of the Christian character. 
But I must again advert to ste 


‘* Woman in our hours of ease ;” 


and here I am sorry to say, we sometimes 
find a fretfulness and petulance under the in- 
fliction of slight bodily ailments, which are as 
much at variance with the moral dignity of 
woman, as opposed to her religious influence. 


The root of the evil, however, lies not so oft- | 


en in her impatience, as in a deeper secret 
of her nature. It lies most frequently in what 
I am compelled to acknowledge as the beset- 


ting sin of woman—her desire to be an ob- | 


ject of attention. rom this desire, how 
many little coughs, slight headaches, sud- 
den pains, attacks of faintness, and symp- 
toms of feebleness are complained of, which, 


if alone, or in the company of those whose |, 


attentions are not agreeable, would scarcely 
occupy a thought. 
such habits gain ground, and remain with 
those who have indulged them in youth, 
long after such complaints have ceased to 
call forth a single kind attention, or to en- 
gage a single patient ear. 

Youth is the only time to prevent this habit 
fixing itself upon the character ; and it might 
be a wholesome truth for all <vomen to bear 
in mind, that although politeness may some- 
times compel their friends to appear to listen, 
nothing is really so wearisome to others, as fre- 
quentand detailed accounts of our own little ail- 
ments. It is good, therefore, whenever temp- 
tations arise to make these trifling grievances 
the subject of complaint, to think of the poor, 
and the really afflicted. It is good to visit 
them also, so far as it may be suitable in 
their seasons of trial, in order that we may 
go home, ashamed before our families, and 
ashamed in the sight of God, that our com- 
paratively slight trials should excite a single 
murmuring thought. 

Besides, if there were no other check upon 
these habitual complainers, surely the cheer- 
fulness of home might have some effect; for 
who can be happy seated beside a compan- 
ion who is always in “excruciating pain,” or 


Yet it is astonishing how | 


! 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 


| who fancies herself so? ‘There are, besides, 
many alleviations to temporary suffering, 

which it is not only lawful, but expedient 
| to adopt. Many interesting books may be 
read, many pleasant kinds of work may be 
done, during a season of slight indisposition ; 
while on the other hand, every little pain is 
made worse by dwelling upon it, and especial- 
ly by doing nothing else. 

The next consideration which occurs in 
| connection with these views of health, is that 
of temper ; and few young persons, I believe, 
are aware how much the one is dependent 
upon the other. Want of exercise, indiges- 
tion, and many other causes originating in 
the state of the body, have a powerful effect 
in destroying the sweetness of the temper; 
while habitual exercise, regular diet, and oc- 
casional change of air, are among the most 
certain means of restoring the temper from 
any temporary derangement. 

Still, there are constitutional tendencies of 
| mind, as well as body, which seriously affect 
the temper, and which remain with us to the 
end of life, as our blessing or our bane; just 
in proportion as they are overruled by our 
own watchfulness and care, operating in 
connection with the work of religion in the 
heart. 


It would require volumes, rather than 


pages, to give any distinct analysis of tem- 
per, so various are the characteristics it as- 
sumes, so vast its influence upon social and 
domestic happiness. We will, therefore, in 
the present instance, confine our attention to 
a few important facts, in connection with this 
| subject, which it is of the utmost consequence 
| that the young should bear in mind. 

| In the first place, ill-temper should always 
| be regarded as a disease, both in ourselves 
|| and others; and as such, instead of either 
irritating or increasing it, we should rather 
|} endeavor to subdue the symptoms of the 
|| disease by the most careful and unremitting 
| efforts. A bad temper, although the most 
pitiable of all infirmities, from the misery it 
| entails upon its possessor, is almost invaria- 


| bly opposed by harshness, severity, or con- 


| tempt. It is true, that all symptoms of dis- 


5 


ease exhibited by a bad temper, have a strong 
tendency to call forth the same in ourselves ; 


65 


but this arises in great measure from not }} 


looking at the case as it really is. 
or a relative, for instance, is afflicted with the 
gout, how carefully do we walk past his foot- 
stool, how tenderly do we remove every thing 


If a friend | 


which can increase his pain, how softly do | 
we touch the affected part! And why should | 


we not exercise the same kind feeling towards 


a brother or a sister afflicted with a bad tem- } 


per, which of all human maladies is unques- 
tionably the greatest ? 


I know it is difficult—nay, almost ifapossi- | 
ble, to practise this forbearance towards a | 


bad temper, when not allied to a generous 


heart—when no atonement is afterwards of- | 
fered for the pain which has been given, and | 
when no evidence exists of the offender be- | 
ing so much as conscious of deserving blame. | 
But when concession is made, when tears of | 


penitence are wept, and when, in moments 
of returning confidence, that luckless tenden- 
cy of temper is candidly confessed, and sin- 
cerely bewailed ; when all the different acts 


committed under its influence, are acknow- | 


ledged to have been wrong, how complete 
ought to be the reconciliation thus begun, and 


how zealous our endeavors for the future to | 
avert the consequences of this sad calamity! | 
Indeed, if those who are not equally tempted | 


to the sins of temper, and who think and 


q 


speak harshly of us for such transgressions, | 
could know the agony they entail upon those | 


who commit them—the yearning of an affec- 
tionate heart towards a friend thus estranged 


—the humiliation of a proud spirit after hav- 
ing thus exposed its weakness—the bitter re- | 
flection, that not oneof all those burning words | 


we uttered can ever be recalled—that they 


have eaten like a canker into some old at- | 


tachment, and stamped with ingratitude the |} 


aching brow, whose fever is already almost 


aa 


more than it can bear ;—oh! could.our.calm- |} 


tempered friends become acquainted with all 
this—with the tears and the prayers to.which 
the overburdened soul gives vent, when no 
eye seeth its affliction, surely they would pity 
our infirmity ; and not only pity, but assist. 


; / 
q 


t 


a ae—aeeoom—_,0€0€0@0€0€0€—0059 


66 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


when the secrets of all hearts shall be laid 
open. Itis perhaps more to our present pur- 
pose, to consider what is the effect upon oth- 
ers, of encouraging wrong tempers in our- 
selves. Young people are apt to think what 
they do, of little importance, because they 
are perhaps the youngest in the family, or at 
least too young to have any influence. They 
should remember that no one is too young to 
be disagreeable, nor too insignificant to an- 
noy. A fretful child may disturb the peace 
of a whole household, and an ill-tempered 
young woman carries about with her an at- 
mosphere of repulsion wherever she goes. 
The moment she enters a room, where a so- 
cial circle are enjoying themselves, conversa- 
tion either ceases or drags on heavily, as if a 
stranger or an enemy were near; and kindly 
thoughts, which the moment before would 
have found frank and free expression, are 
suppressed, from the instinctive feeling that 
she can take no part in them. Each one of 
the company, in short, feels the worse for her 
presence, a sense of contraction seizes every 
heart, a cloud falls upon every countenance ; 
and so powerful are the sympathies of our 
| nature, and so rapidly does that which is evil 
extend its contaminating influence, ‘that all 
this will sometimes be experienced, when not 
a word has been spoken by the victim of ill- 
temper. | 

It is easy to perceive when most young 
women are out of temper, even without the 
| interchange of words. ‘The pouting lip, the 
door shut with violence, the thread suddenly 
snapped, the work twitched aside or thrown 
down, are indications of the real state of the 
mind, at least as unwise, as they are unlove- 
ly. Others who are not guilty of these ab- 
surdities, will render themselves still more 


These, however, are among the deep things 
of human ‘experience, never to be clearly re- 
vealed, or fully understood, until that day 


patience ; by conversing only upon humilia- 
ting or unpleasant subjects, complaining in- 
cessantly about grievances which all have 
| equally to bear, prolonging disputes about the 


merest trifles beyond all bounds of reason and 
propriety ; and by finally concluding with a 
direct reproach for some offence which had 
far better have been spoken of candidly at 
first. 3 


tracing out the symptoms of this malady. 
Suffice it that a naturally bad temper, or even 
a moderate one badly disciplined, is the great- 
est enemy to the happiness of a family which 
can be admitted beneath any respectable roof || 
—the greatest hindrance to social intercourse 
—the most fatal barrier against moral and 
religious improvement. 


temper, if long encouraged, and thoroughly 


| annoying, by a captiousness of conduct, most 
difficult to bear with any moderate degree of 


But there would be no end to the task of |} 


Like all other evils incident to man, a bad 


rooted in the constitution, becomes in time 
impossible to be eradicated. In youth it is 
comparatively easy to stem the rising tide of 
sullenness, petulance, or passion; but when 
the tide has been allowed to gain ground so 
as to break down every barrier, until its des- 
olating waters habitually overflow the soul, 
no human power can drive them back, or 
restore the beauty, freshness, and fertility 
which once existed there. 

No longer, then, let inexperienced youth 
believe this tide of evil can be stayed at will. 
The maniac may say, “I am now calm, I 
will injure you no more:” yet, the frenzied 
fit will come to-morrow, when he will turn 
again and rend you. In the same way, the 
victim of ungoverned temper may even beg 
forgiveness for the past, and promise, with 
the best intentions, to offend no more; but 
how shall a daughter in her mood of kind- 
ness heal the wound her temper has inflicted 
on a mother’s heart, or convince her parent 
it will be the last? How shall the woman, 
whose temper has made desolate her house- 
hold hearth, win back the peace and con- 
fidence she has destroyed? How shall the 
wife, though she would give all her bridal 
jewels for that purpose, restore the links her . 
temper has rudely snapped asunder in the 
chain of conjugal affection t 

No, there are no other means than those 
adopted and pursued in youth, by which to 
overcome this foe to temporal and eternal 


a y 


BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 


happiness. 
cult. 


Nor let the task appear too diffi- 
There is one curious fact in connection 
with the subject, which it may be encourag- 
ing to my young friends to remember. Stran- 
gers never provoke us—at least, not in any 
degree proportionate to the provocations of 
our near and familiar connections. They 
may annoy us by their folly, or stay too long 
when they call, or call at inconvenient times ; 
but how sweetly do we smile at all their re- 
marks, how patiently do we bear all their al- 
lusions, compared with those of our family 
circle! ‘The fact is, they have less power 
over us, and for this reason, because they 
do not know us so well. Half the provoca- 
tions we experience from common conver- 
sation, and more than half the point of every 
bitter taunt, arise out of some intended or 
imagined allusion to what has been known 
or supposed of us before. Ifa parent speaks 
harshly to us in years of maturity, we think 
he assumes too much the authority which 
governed our childhood; if a brother would 
correct our folly, we are piqued and morti- 
fied to think how often he must have seen it; 
if a sister blames us for any trifling error, we 
know what her condemnation of our whole 
conduct must be, if all our faults are blamed 
in the same proportion. Thus it is that our 
near connections have a hold upon us, which 
strangers cannot have ; for, besides the cases 
in which the offence is merely imagined, there 


)} are but too many in which past folly or trans- 
| gression is made the subject of present re- 


proach. And thus the evil grows, as year 
after year is added to the catalogue of the 
past, until our nearest connections have 
need of the utmost forbearance to avoid 
touching upon any tender or forbidden 
point. 

Now, it is evident that youth must be com- 
paratively exempt from this real or imagina- 
ry source of pain; just in proportion as the 
past is of less importance to them, and as 
fewer allusions can be made to the follies or 
the errors of their former lives. Thus the 


season of youth has greatly the advantage 
over that of maturer age, in cultivating that 
evenness of temper which enables its pos- 


67 


sessor to pass pleasantly along the stream of 
life, without unnecessarily ruffling its own 
course, or that of others. 

The next point we have to take into ac- 
count in. the right government of temper, is 
the important truth, that habitual cheerful- 
ness is a duty we owe to our friends and to 
society. We all have our little troubles, if 
we choose to brood over them, and even 
youth is not exempt; but the habit is easily 
acquired of setting them aside for the sake 
of others, of evincing a willingness to join in 
general conversation, to smile at what is gen- 
erally entertaining, and even to seek out sub- 
jects for remark which are likely to interest 
and please. We have no more right to in- 
flict our moodiness upon our friends, than 
we have to wear in their presence our soiled 
or cast-off clothes; and, certainly, the latter 
is the least insulting and disgraceful of the 
two. 

A cheerful temper—not occasionally, but 
habitually cheerful—is a quality which no 
wise man would be willing to dispense with 
in choosing a wife. Itis like a good fire in 
winter, diffusive and genial in its influence, 
and always approached with a confidence 
that it will comfort, and do us good. Atten- 
tion to health is one great means of main- 
taining this excellence unimpaired, and atten- 
tion to household affairs is another. The 
state of body which women call bilious, is 
most inimical to habitual cheerfulness; and 
that which girls call having nothing to do, 
but which I should call idleness, is equally 
so. Ina former part of this chapter, I have 
strongly recommended exercise as the first 
rule for preserving health ; but there is an 
exercise in domestic usefulness, which, with- 
out superseding that in the open air, is high- 
ly beneficial to the health, both of mind and 
body, inasmuch as it adds to other benefits, 
the happiest of all sensations, that of hav- 
ing rendered some assistance, or done some 
good. 

How the daughters of England—those who 
have but few servants, or, perhaps, only one 
—can sitin their fathers’ homes with folded 
hands, when any great domestic movement 


aul 


68 


is going on, and not endeavor to assist, is a 
mystery I have tried in vain to solve; espe- 
| cially when, by so doing, they become habit- 
ually listless, weary, and unhappy; and 
when, on the other hand, the prompt and 
willing domestic assistant is almost invaria- 
bly distinguished by the characteristics of 
energy and cheerfulness. Let me entreat my 
young readers, if they ever feel a tendency 
to causeless melancholy, if they are afflicted 
with cold feet and headache, but, above all, 
with impatience and irritability, so that they 
can scarcely make a pleasant reply when 
spoken to, let me entreat them to make trial 
of the system I am recommending; not sim- 
ply to run into the kitchen and trifle with 
the servants, but to set about doing some- 
thing that will add to the general comfort of 
the family, and that will, at the same time, 
relieve some member of that family of a por- 
tion of daily toil. 

I fear it is a very unromantic conclusion to 
come to, but my firm conviction is, that half 
the miseries of young women, and half their 
ill tempers, might be avoided by habits of 
domestic activity; because (I repeat the fact 
again) there is no sensation more cheering 
and delightful, than the conviction of having 
been useful; and I have generally found 
young people particularly susceptible of this 
pleasure. 

A willing temper, then, is the great thing 
to be attained ; a temper that does not object, 
| that does not resist, that does not hold itself 

excused. A temper subdued to an habitual 
| acquiescence with duty, is the only temper 

worth calling good; and this may be the 
portion of all who desire so great a blessing, 
who seek it in youth, and who adopt the 
only means of making it their own—watch- 
fulness and prayer. 

I have said nothing of the operation of love, 
as it relates to the subject of this chapter; 
but it must be understood to be pre-eminently 
the life-spring of our best endeavors in the 
regulation both of health and temper, since 
none can fail in the slightest degree in either 
of these points, without materially affecting 

| the happiness of others. 


SO LT 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER VIL. 


SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 


-Society is often to the daughters of a 
family, what business or a profession is to the 
sons ; at least so far as regards the importance 
attached to it, and the opportunity it affords 
of failure or success. Society! what a ca- 
pacious and dignified idea this word presents 
to the girl just entering upon womanhood! 
What a field for action and sensation! What 
an arena for the display of all her accomplish- 
ments! How much that is now done, thought, 
and uttered, has society for its object! How 
much is left undone, for the sake of so- 
ciety! But let us pause a moment, and ask 
what society is. Is it a community of tried 
and trusted friends, united together by the 
ties of perfect love? Listen to the remarks 
of those, even of your own family, who re- | 
turn from the evening party, or the morning 
call. Is it a community of beings with whom 
mind ‘is all in all, and intellectual improve- 
ment the purpose for which they meet? 
Observe the preparations that are made—the 
dress, the furniture, the food, the expense 
that is lavished upon these. Is it a commu- 
nity who even love to meet, and who really 
enjoy the social hours they spend together? 
Ask them in what mood or temper they enter 
upon the fatigues of the evening, or how often 
they wish that some event would occur to 
render their presence unnecessary. 

There is, however, one class of beings, | 
who generally go into society with no want of | 
inclination, but who rather esteem no trouble 
too great which is the means of bringing them | 
in contact with it, or which enables them to 
pass with credit the ordeal which society | 
presents. This class of beings consists of 
young women who have not had experience 
enough to know what society really is, or 
what is the place assigned to them by the 
unanimous opinion of society, in the circles 
with which they exchange visits. What an 
event to them is an evening party! One 
would think each of the young aspirants to 
distinction expected to be the centre of a cir- 


SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 


69 


cle, so intense is the interest exhibited by 
every act of preparation. The consequence 
of all this, is a more than ordinary degree of 
causeless depression on the following day, or 
else an equal degree of causeless elevation, 
arising perhaps out of some foolish attention, 
or flattering remark, which has been repeat- 
ed to half the ladies in the room. 

Of all the passions which take possession 
of the female breast, a passion for society is 
one of the most inimical to domestic enjoy- 
ment. Yet, how often does this exist in con- 
nection with an amiable exterior! It is not 
easy to say, whether we ought most to pity 
or to blame a woman who lives for society— 
a woman who reserves all her good spirits, 
all her becoming dresses, her animated looks, 
her interesting conversation, her bland be- 
havior, her smiles, her forbearance, her gen- 
tleness for society—what imposition does she 
practise upon those who meet her there! 
Follow the same individual home, she is im- 
patient, fretful, sullen, weary, oppressed with 
headache, uninterested in all that passes 
around her, and dreaming only of the last 
evening’s excitement, or of what may consti- 
tute the amusement of the next; while the 
mortification of her friends at home, is in- 
creased by the contrast her behavior exhibits 
in the two different situations, and her ex- 
penditure upon comparative strangers, of 
feelings to which they consider themselves as 
having a natural and inalienable right. 

As a cure for this passion, I would propose 
a few remarks, founded both on observation 
and experience. In the first place, then, we 
seldom find that society affords us more 
pleasing or instructive intercourse than awaits 
us at home; and as to kindly feeling towards 
ourselves, if not excited in our nearest con- 
nections, how can we expect it from those 
wno know us less, without having practised 
upon them some deception? 

In the next place, we ought never to forget 
our own extreme insignificance in society. 
Indeed, it may be taken as a rule with young 
people in ordinary cases, that one half of the 
persons they meet in society are not aware 
of their having been present, nor even con- 


scious of the fact of their existence; that 
another half of the remaining number have 
seen them without any favorable impression ; 
that another half of those who still remain, 
have seen them with rather unfavorable feel- 
ings than otherwise ; while, of those who re- 
main beyond these, the affectionate feelings, 
indulgence, and cordial interest, can be as 
nothing, compared with what they might en- 
joy at home. 

“How can this be?’ exclaims the young 
visitor, ‘ when so many persons look pleased 
to see me, when so many invitations are sent 
me, when some persons pay me such flatter- 
ing compliments, and others appear so de- 
cidedly struck with my appearance?” JI 
should be truly sorry to do any thing to cool 
down the natural warmth and confidence of 
youth ; but, in such cases, my rule for judg- 
ing is a very simple one, depending upon the 
result of the following inquiries :—What is 
the proportion of persons you have noticed in 
the same company? What is the proportion 
of those by whom you have felt yourself re- 
pelled? What is the proportion of those you 
have really admired? and the proportion of 
those to whom you have been attracted by 
sympathy, or affection? Ask yourselves 
these questions, and remember, that whatever 
may be the flattering aspect of society, you 
have no right to expect to receive, in admi- 
ration, or good-will, more than you give. 

There is another class of young women, 
who appear to think the only reason for their 
being invited in society, is, that another place 
may be occupied, another chair filled, and 
another knife and fork employed ; for as to 
any effort they make in return for the com- 
pliment of inviting them, they might, to all 
intents and purposes, have been at home. 
Now, where persons cannot, or dare not, con- 
verse—or where that which alone deserves 
the name of conversation is not suited to the 
habits or the ways of thinking of those who 
have been at the trouble of inviting guests— 
Iam a great advocate for cheerful, easy, so- 
cial chat; provided only, it gives place the 
instant that something better worth listening 
to is commenced. ‘That all ingenious, warm- 


70 


hearted, unaffected young women, can chat, 
and some of them very pleasantly too, wit- 
“ness their moments of unrestrained confidence 
in the company of their friends. There is, 
then, no excuse for those who go into com- 
pany, and return from it, without having con- 
tributed in any way to the enjoyment of the 
party they had been invited to meet. 

All young persons, however insignificant, 
must occasionally meet the eye of the mis- 
tress of the house where they are visiting, 
and then is the time to say something expres- 
sive of interest in her, or hers; such as in- 
quiring for some absent member of the family: 
or, at any rate, proving in some way or other, 
that she and her household have interests 
with which you are not wholly unacquaint- 
ed. 

One of the most genuine, and at the same 
time one of the most pleasing compliments 
ever paid, is that of proving to those we visit, 
or receive as Visitors, that we have been pre- 
viously aware of their existence. There are 
many delicate ways of doing this; and while 
it injures no one, it seldom fails to afford a 
certain degree of gratification. Social chat, 
is that which sets people at liberty to talk on 
their favorite subjects, whatever they may be. 
In society, too, we meet with a large propor- 
tion of persons, who want listeners ; and the 
young, who cannot be supposed to have 
amassed so large a sum of information as 
others, ought to consider themselves as pe- 
culiarly called upon to fill this respectable de- 
partment in society, remembering at the same 
time, that the office ofa good listener can never 
be that of a perfectly silent one. There must 
be occasionally an animated and intelligent re- 
sponse, intervals of attentive and patient hear- 
ing, with a succession of questions, earnestly, 
but modestly put, and arising naturally out 
of the subject, to render the part of the listener 
of any value in general conversation. The 
vapid response effectually repels; the flatand 
uninterested expression of countenance soon 
wearies ; and the question not adapted to the 
subject cuts short the narration. 

Let me not, however, be understood to re- 

commend the mere affectation of interest, or 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


attention; though perfectly aware that such 
affectation is the current coin, by which the 
good-will of society is generally purchased. 
My view of the case is this—that the absence 
of vanity and selfishness in our own feelings, 
and benevolence towards others, will induce 
a real interest in every thing which concerns 
them, at least, so far as it may occupy the 
conversation of an evening; and are we not 
as much bound in duty to be social, frank, 
and talkative to little-minded and common- 
place persons, provided they have been at 
the pains to invite and to entertain us, as if 
they were more intellectual, or more dis- 
tinguished? ‘Besides, how often do we find 
in conversation with such persons, that they 
are able to give us much useful information, 
which individuals of a higher grade of intel- 
lect would never have condescended to give ; 
and, after all, there is a vast sum of practi- 
cal and moral good effected by persons of 
this description, whose unvarnished details 
of common things afford us clearer views of 
right and wrong, than more elaborate state- 
ments. 

I have said, already, that the indulgence of 
mere chat should never «be carried too far. 
In the society of intelligent and enlightened 
men, nothing can be more at variance with 
good taste, than for women to occupy the at- 
tention of the company with their own little 
affairs ; but especially when serious conversa- 
tion is carried on, no woman of right feeling 
would wish to interrupt it with that which is 
less important. Nor ought this humble 
substitute for conversation, which I have re- 
commended to those who cannot do better, 
or appreciate what is higher, on any occasion 
to be considered as the chief end at which to 
aim in society. Women possess pre-emi- 
nently the power of conversing well, if this 
power is rightly improved and exercised ; 
but as this subject is one which occupies so 
large a portion of a previous work,* I will 
only add, that my opinion remains the same 
as therein expressed, that the talent of con. 
versation is one which it is woman’s especial 


*'The Women of England. 


duty to cultivate, because the duties of con- 
versation are among those for which she is 
peculiarly responsible. 

When we think of what society might be 
to the young, and to the old, it becomes a 
painful task to speak to the inexperienced, 
the trusting, and the ardent, of what it is. 
When we think of the seasons of mental and 
spiritual refreshment, which might thus be 
enjoyed, the interchange of mutual trust and 
kindness, the awakening of new ideas, the 
correction of old ones, the sweeping away of 
| prejudice, and the establishment of truth, the 
general enlargement of thought, the extension 


| of benevolence, and the increase of sympathy, 
| confidence, and good faith, which might thus. 


| be brought about among the families of man- 
|| kind; we long to send forth the young and 


|| the joyous spirit, buoyant with the energies. 


of untried life, and warm with the generous 


flow of unchecked feeling, to exercise each. 
| growing faculty, and prove each genuine im- | 


pulse, upon the fair and flowery field which 
|| society throws open, alike for action, for feel- 
| ing, and for thought. 


But, alas! such is society as it now ex-_ 


| ists, that no mother venturing upon this ex- 
| periment, would receive back to the peaceful 
nést the wing so lately fledged unruffled by 
its flight, the snowy breast unstained, or the 
beating heart as true as when it first went 
forth, elated with the glowing hope of finding 
in society what it never yet was rich enough 
to yield. 

An old and long-established charge is 
brought against society for its flattery and its 
falsehood, and we go on from year to year 
complaining in the same strain; those who 
have expected most, and have been the most 
deceived, complaining in the bitterest terms. 
But, suppose the daughters of England should 
. now determine that they would bring about 
| a reformation in society, how easily would 
this be done! for, whether they know it or 
not, they have the social morals of their coun- 
try in their power. If the excellent, but 
humble maxim, “Let each one mend one,” 
were acted up to in this case, we should have 
no room left to find fault with others, for all 


—— 


SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 


71 | 


would be too busily and too well occupied in | 
examining their own motives, and regulating 
their own conduct, to make any calculations 
upon what might be done or left undone by 
others. 

In the first place, each young woman act- 
ing upon this rule, would live for home, 
trusting that society would take care of its. 
own interests. She would, however, enter 
into it as a social duty, rather than a personal |. 
gratification, and she would do this with kind |} 
and generous feelings, determined to think 
the best she could of her fellow-creatures, © 
and where she could not understand their } 
motives, to give them credit for good ones. 
She would mix with society, not for the pur- 
pose of shining before others, but of adding 
her share to the general enjoyment; she 
would consider every one whom she met 
there, as having equal claims upon her at- 
tentions; but her sympathies would be es- 
pecially called forth by the diffident, the un- 
attractive, or the neglected. Above all, she 
would remember that for the opportunities 
thus afforded her, of doing or receiving good, } 
she would have to render an account asa 
Christian, and a woman; that for every 
wrong feeling not studiously checked, for 
every falsehood however trifling, or calcula- 
ted to please, for every moral truth kept 
back or disguised for want of moral courage 
to divulge it, for every uncharitable insinua- | 
tion, for every idle or amusing jest at the ex- || 
pense of religious principle, and for every 
chance omitted of supporting the cause of 
virtue, however unpopular, or discounte- 
nancing vice, however well received, her sit- 
uation was that of a responsible being, of 
whom an account of all the good capable of 
being derived from opportunities like these, 
would be required. 

Need we question for a moment whether 
such are the feelings, and such the resolu- 
tions, of those who enter into society in gener- 
al? We doubt not but some are thus influ- 
enced, and that they have their reward; but 
with others, old associations and old habits 
are strong, and they think that one can do 
nothing against the many; and thus they | 


72 


wait, and wish things were otherwise, but 
never set about the reformation themselves. 
Yet, surely these are times for renovated ef- 
fort on the part of women, to whom the in- 
terests of society belong ; for let men rule, as 
they unquestionably have a right to do, in 
the senate, the camp, and the court; it is 
women whose sentiments and feelings give 
tone to society, and society which in its turn 
influences the sentiments and feelings of 
mankind. Each generation, as it arises, ma- 
tures, and consolidates into another series of 
social inter¢éourse, bears the impress which 
society has stamped upon the last; and so 
powerful is the influence thus derived, that 
the laws of a nation would be useless in de- 
fence of virtue, if the voice of society was 
raised against it. 

How often has the tender and anxious mo- 
ther had to deplore this influence upon the 
minds of her children! Until they mingled 
with society, they were respectful, attentive, 
and obedient to her injunctions, confiding im- 
plicitly in the rectitude and the reasonable- 
ness of her requirements. But society soon 
taught them that the views of their parents 
were unenlightened, old-fashioned, or absurd ; 
that even the motives for enforcing them 
might not be altogether pure; and that none 
who mixed in good society, ought to submit 
to regulations so childish and humiliating. 

If then, such be the influence of society, 
how important is it that so powerful an agent 
should be engaged on the side of virtue and 
of truth! And that it already is so in many 
most important cases, I acknowledge, to the 
honor of my country, believing that the gen- 
eral tone of society is highly favorable to that 
high moral standard, for which England is 
pre-eminent over every nation of the world. 
i allude particularly to the preservation of the 
character of woman from the slightest taint. 


The rules, or rather the opinions of society, 


as to what is correct or incorrect in female 
conduct, extending down to the most minute 
points of behavior, are sometimes considered 
to be too strict, and even rebelled against by 
high-spirited ignorant young women as being 
too severe. But let no one, in her blindness 


ee ee EN SL Pea I Tay i ce A OP 


or temerity, venture upon the slightest trans- 
gression of these rules, because in her young 
wisdom she sees no cause for their existence. 
Society has good reasons for planting this 
friendly hedge beside the path of woman, and 
the day will come when she will be thankful 
—truly thankful that her own conduct, even 
in minute and apparently trifling matters, was 
not left in early life to the decision of her 
own judgment, or the guidance of her own 
will. 

It ought rather to be the pride of every 
English woman, that such are the conditions 
of society in her native land, that whether 
motherless or undisciplined in her domestic 
lot, she cannot become a member of good so- 
ciety, or at least retain her place there, with- 
out submitting to restrictions; which, while 
they deprive her of no real gratification, are 
at once the safeguard of her peace, the sup- 
port of her moral dignity, and the protection 
of her influence as a sister, a wife, a mother, 
and a friend. 

Let us then be thankful to society for the 
good it has done, and is doing, to thousands 
who have perhaps no watchful eye at home, 
no warning voice to tell them how far to go, 
and when to go no further. Nor can we for 
a moment hesitate to yield our assent to these 
restrictions imposed upon our sex, when we 
look at the high moral standing of the women 
of England, and think how much the tone of 
society has to do with the maintenance of 
their true interests. 
stop here. 


Let us not, however, 
If there is so much that is good 
in society, why should there not be more? 
Why should there still remain the trifling, the 
slander, the envy, the low suspicion, the false- 
hood, the flattery, which ruffle and disfigure 
the surface of society, and render it too much 
like a treacherous ocean, on which no well- 
wisher to the young would desire to trust an 
untried bark ? 

A feeling of moral dignity taken with us in- 
to society, would be a great preservative 
against much of this; because it would lift 
us out of the littleness of low observations, 
and petty cavillings about dress and manners. 
A spirit of love would do more, extending 


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THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


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through all the different channels of forbear- 
ance, benevolence, and mutual trust. But 
a Christian spirit would do still more; _be- 
cause it would embrace the whole law of love, 
at the same time that it would impress the 
seal of truth upon all we might venture 
to say ordo. Thus might a great moral ref- 
ormation be effected, and effected by the 
young—by young women too, and effected 
without presumption, and without display ; 
for the humble and unobtrusive working out 
of these principles, would be as much at va- 
riance with ostentation, as they would be fa- 
vorable to the cultivation of all that is estima- 
ble in the female character, both at home and 
abroad. 

One of the greatest drawbacks to the good 
influence of society, is the almost unrivalled 
power of fashion upon the female mind. 
Wherever civilized society exists, fashion ex- 
ercises her all-pervading influence. All stoop 
to it, more or less, and appear to esteem it a 
merit to do so; while a really fashionable wo- 
man, though both reprobated and ridiculed, 
has an influence in society which is little less 
than absolute. Yet, if we would choose out 
the most worthless, the most contemptible, 
and the least efficient of moral agents, it would 
be the slave of fashion. 

Say the best we can of fashion, it is only an 
imaginary or conventional rule, by which a 
certain degree of order and uniformity is 
maintained ; while the successive and fre- 
quent variations in this rule, are considered 
to be the means of keeping in constant exer- 
cise our arts and manufactures. I am not 
political economist enough to know whether 
| the same happy results might not be brought 
about by purer motives, and nobler means ; 
but it has always appeared to me one of 
the greatest of existing absurdities, that a 
whole community of people, differing in com- 
plexion, form, and feature, as widely as the 
same species can differ, should not only de- 
sire to wear precisely the same kind of dress, 
but should often labor, strive, and struggle, 
deceive, envy, and cheat, and spend their own 
substance, and often more than they can law- 
fully call their own—to do what? To obtain 


Loge ee 
Ss eee 


SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 


a dress, which is to them most unbecoming, 
or an article of furniture wholly unsuited to 
themselves and their establishment. 

My own idea, and I believe it is founded | 
upon a long-cherished, and perhaps too ar- 
dent admiration of personal beauty, is, that 
fashion ought to favor all which is most be- 
coming. Itis true, we should at first be great- 
ly ata loss to know what was becoming, be- 
cause we should have the power and the pre- 
judice of fashion to contend with ; but there 
can be no doubt that individual, as well as 
public taste, would be improved by such ex- 
ercise, and that our: manufactures would in 
the end be equally benefited, though for some 


time it might be difficult to calculate upon 
the probable demand. Nor can I think that 
female vanity would be more encouraged 
than it now is, by thus consulting personal 
and relative fitness; because the young wo- 
man who now goes into company fashiona- 
bly disfigured, believes herself to be quite as 
beautiful as if she was really so. Neither can 
I see that we are not bound to study how to 
make the best of our appearance, for the sake 
of our friends, as well as how to make the 
best eof our manners, our furniture, and our 
food. 

Fashion, however, never takes this into 
account. According to her arbitrary law, the 
woman of sallow complexion must wear the 
same color as the Hebe; the contracted or 
misshapen forehead must be laid as bare as 
that which displays the fairest page of beau- 
ty; the form with square and awkward shoul- 
ders, must wear the same costume as that 
which boasts the contour of the Graces; and 
oh! most pitiful of all, old age must be 
“ pranked up’’ in the light drapery, the flow- 
ers, and the gauds of youth! In addition to 
all this, each one, as an indispensable requi- 
site, must possess a waist considerably below 
the dimensions which are consistent either 
with symmetry or health. 

It will be an auspicious era in the experi- 
ence of the daughters of England, when they © 
shall be convinced, that the Grecians had a 
higher standard of taste in female beauty, 
than that of the shopkeepers and dressma- 

t 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


I NE 


kers of London. They will then be willing | 
to believe, that to be within the exact rule of 
proportion, is as important a deviation from 
perfect beauty, as to be beyond it; and that 
nothing which destroys the grace of easy and 
natural movement, which deprives any bodi- 
ly function of its necessary exercise, which 
robs the youthful cheek of its bloom, or, in 
short, which ungratefully throws back from 
our possession the invaluable blessing of 
health, can be consistent with the good taste 
or right feeling of an amiable, intelligent, or 
rational woman. 

These remarks are applicable, in their full- 
est force, to every deviation which is sanc- 
tioned by fashion, from the strict and holy 
law of modesty and decorum. And of this 
most injurious tendency of fashion, how in- 
sidious is every encroachment, yet how cer- 
tain its effect upon the female mind! It is 
no uncommon thing to hear women express 
the utmost abhorrence of the costume of 
some old portrait, who, in the course of a 
few years, perhaps months, are induced by 
fashion to adopt, with unblushing satisfac- 
tion, an equally, or more objectionable dress. 

The young girl cannot too scrupulously 
shroud her modest feelings from the unspa- 
ring test of fashion. The bloom of modesty 
is soon rubbed off by vulgar contact; but 
what is thus lost to the young female can 
never be restored. And let her look to the 
risk she incurs. What is it? On the one 
hand, to be thought a little less fashionable 
than her friends and neighbors—on the other, 
to be thought a little more exposed than a del- 
icate woman ought to be. Is there any com- 
parison between the two? Or is there one 
of the daughters of England, who would not 
rather be known to choose the former? 

If possessed of any genuine feeling on 
these important points, a young woman will 
know by a kind of instinct, that a bare shoul- 
der protruding into sight, is neither a delicate 
nor a lovely object; that a dress, either so 
made, or so put on, as not tolook secure and 
neat, is, to say the least of it, in bad taste; 
and that the highest standard at which a 


to dress, is, that it should be becoming, and 
not conspicuous. In order to secure this 
last point of excellence, it is unquestionably 


necessary to conform in some measure to the 


fashion of the times in which we live, and 
the circle of society in which we move; yet, 
surely this may be done to an extent suffi- 
cient to avoid the charge of singularity, with- 
out the sacrifice either of modesty or good 
taste. 

Whatever may be the beneficial influence 
of fashion upon the interests of the country 
at large, its effects upon individual happiness 
are injurious in proportion to their extent ; 
and in what region of the world, or among 
what grade of humanity, has not this idol of 
the gilded shrine, this divinity of lace and 
ribbons, wielded the sceptre of a sovereign, 
and asserted her dominion over mankind? 
All bow before her, though many of her sub- 
jects disclaim her title, and profess to despise 
her authority. Nor is her territory less ex- 
tensive, because her empire is one of trifles. 
From the ermine of the monarch to the san- 
dal of the clown ; from the bishop’s lawn, to 
the itinerant’s*cravat; from the hero’s man- 
tle, to the mechanic’s apron; it is fashion 
alone which regulates the form, the quality, 
and the cost. 

Fashion is unjustly spoken of as presiding 
only in the festive dance, the lighted hall, the 
crowded court. Would that her influence 
were confined to these alone! but, alas! we 
find her in the most sedate assemblies, cool- 
ing down each tint of coloring that else might 
glow too warmly, smoothing off excrescences, 


and rounding angles to one general uniformi- | 


ty of shape and tone. Her task, however, is 
but a short one here, and she passes on 
through all the busy haunts of life, neglect- 
ing neither high nor low, nor rich nor poor, 
until she enters the very sanctuary, and bows 
before the altar, not only walking with the 
multitude who keep holy day, but bending in 
sable sorrow over the last and dearest friend 
committed to the tomb. Yes, there is some- 
thing monstrous in the thought, that we can- 
not weep for the dead, but fashion must dis- 


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SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 75 


before the altar, and pronounce that solemn 
vow, which the deep heart of woman alone 
can fully comprehend, but fashion must be 
especially consulted there. 

Yet worse even than all this, is the influ- 
ence which our love of fashion has upon our 
servants, and upon the poor. Every Chris- 
tian woman sees and deplores the evil, and 
many wholesome restrictions are laid upon 
poor girls, in their attendance at Sunday- 
schools, and other establishments for their 
instruction ; but are not the plans most fre- 
quently adopted for the correction of this evil, 
like telling little children at table that good 
things are not safe for them, yet eating them 
ourselves, and making much of them too, as 
if they were the greatest treat ? 

Christians, I believe, will find they have 
much to give up yet, before the cause of 
Christ will prosper as they wish it in our 
native land. Never will the young servant 
cease to walk the streets with pride and sat- 
isfaction in the exhibition of her newly-pur- 
chased and fashionable attire, so long as she 
sees the young ladies, in the family she 
serves, make it their greatest object to be 
fashionably dressed. They may say, and 
with some justice, that she has no right to 
regulate her conduct by their rule ; they may 
reason with, and even reprove her too; but 
neither reasoning nor reproof will have the 
power to correct, so long as example weighs 
down the opposite scale. The vanity, the 
weakness of woman is the same in the kitch- 
en as in the drawing-room; and if fashion is 
omnipotent in one, we cannot expect it to be 
powerless in the other. 

The question then has come to this: shall 
we continue to compete with our servants in 
dress, now that excess has become an evil; 
or shall we endeavor, for their sakes as well 
as our own, to compete with them in self- 


denial, and in courage to do right? How 


can we pause—how can we hesitate in such 
a choice? Our decision once made on this 
important point, we shall soon find that fash- 


ion has been with us, as well as with them, a 


hard mistress. Yes, fashion has often de- 
manded of us the only sum of money we had 


been able to lay by for the needy poor; 
while with them it has wrung the father’s 
scanty pittance from his hand, to supply the 
daughter with the trappings of her own dis- 
grace. Fashion with us has often set on fire 
the flame of envy, and embittered the shafts 
of ridicule ; while with them: it has been a 
fruitful source of deceit, dishonesty, and 
crime. Fashion with us has often broken 
old connections, made us ashamed of valua- 
ble friends, and proud of those whose friend- 
ship was our bane; while with them it has 
been the means of introducing the young 
and the unwary to the companionship of the 
treacherous and the depraved. 

I have said that fashion is a hard mistress: 
when we contemplate some scenes exhibited, 
not to the eye of the stranger, but within the 
circle of private families in this prosperous 
and enlightened country, we are often led to 
doubt, whether its boasted happiness is really 
so universal as patriot poets and patriot ora- 
tors would teach us to believe. There is a 
state of things existing behind the scenes in 
many English homes, an under-current be- 
neath the fair surface of domestic peace, to 
which belong some of the most pressing anx- 
ieties, the darkest forebodings, and the bit- 
terest reflections of which the human mind is 
capable, and all arising out of the great na- 
tional evil of competing with our neighbors 
in the luxuries and elegances of life, so as to 
be living constantly up to the extent of our 
pecuniary means, and too frequently beyond 
them. 

It is not likely that young women should 
understand this evil in its full extent, or be 
aware of the many sad consequences result- 
ing from it, but they do understand that it is 
not necessity, nor comfort, nor yet respecta- 
bility, which makes them press upon their 
parents the often-repeated demand for money, 
where there is none to spare. No; it is 
fashion, the tyrant-mistress upon whose ser- 
vice they have entered, who calls upon them 
to be dressed in the appointed livery of all 
her slaves; and thus they wring a father’s 
heart with sorrow, perhaps deprive him of 
the necessary comforts of old age; or they 


76 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


{| send away unpaid a poor and honest trades- 


man, because they cannot, “absolutely ¢an-— 


not,” appear in company with an unfashion- 
able dress. 

Now, does it never occur to the amiable, 
and the affectionate, that a particular color 
or form of dress is hardly worth a parent’s 
heartache? I know it does; and they feel 
: sorry sometimes to be thus the cause of what 
they would persuade themselves was unne- 
cessary pain. But fashion is a cruel, as 
well as a hard mistress ; and she tells them 
that, despite the remonstrances of parental 
love, despite the legal claims of those whose 
need is greater than their own, despite the 
stain upon their father’s house and name, if 
found unable to discharge his lawful debts, 
her rule is absolute, and she must be obeyed. 
Yes, I know it does come home to the hearts 
of the feeling and the kind, to make these 
frequent and these urgent applications, where 
they know that the pecuniary means of the 
family are small; and sometimes they do try 
to go forth into company again, with a dress 
not cut according to the newest mode. But 
fashion is revengeful, as she is cruel; and 
she turns upon them with the ridicule of 
gayer friends, and asks whether the garb 
they wear was the costume of the ark ; and, 
instantly, all that is noble, and generous, and 
disinterested in their nature, sinks, and they 
become subject, perhaps, to as much real 
suffering for the time, as if they had destroyed 
a mother’s peace, or involved a father in pe- 
cuniary difficulty. 

But let them not be discouraged at thus 
being deprived for an instant of moral dig- 
nity, and moral power. The better feelings 
of their nature will rally, the vitality of higher 
principles will revive, if they will but make 
a stand against the enemy ; or, rather, if they 
will but reflect, that fashion, under whose 
tyranny they are quailing, is, in reality, an 
enemy, and not a friend. She is an enemy, 
because she has incited them to much evil, 
and to no good. She is an enemy, because 
when they sink into poverty or distress, led 
on by her instigation, she immediately for- 
sakes, and leaves them to their fate. Fashion 


never yet was on the side of suffering, of sor- 


row, or of want. Her favorite subjects are 
the successful, the arrogant, the vain-glorious ; 
the objects of her contempt are the humble, 
the afflicted, and the poor. 

Let the young, then, bear about with them 
the remembrance of this fact, that there are 
strong influences which obtain even in good 
society, but which are not really to be weighed 
in the balance against the minutest fraction 
of Christian duty ; and that fashion, although 
approved, and even courted by all classes 
and denominations of mankind, and present, 
by general invitation, at all places of public 
resort, even on occasions the most sacred 
and solemn, so far from having part or lot in 
any thing pertaining to religion, can only dis- 
play the symbols of her triumph in the house 
of prayer, as a badge of human weakness, 
and a proof that our follies and infirmities 
are with us even there. 

Beyond the love of fashion, which is com- 
mon to all classes of society, there some- 
times exists in the female breast a passion of 
a deeper and still more dangerous nature, 
which society has a powerful tendency to 
call forth; I mean the love of distinction. 
In man, this passion is ambition. In woman, 
it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the 
many ; to be something of, and by, herself; 
to enjoy what she does enjoy, and to appro- 
priate the tribute which society offers her, 
distinct from the sisterhood to which she be- 
longs. Of such women it may truly be said, 
“they have their reward.” __ 

The first and most frequent aim to which 
this passion directs itself, is to be the idol of 
society ; which is synonymous with being the 
butt of ridicule, and the mock of envy, to all 
who witness her pretensions, especially to 
all who have failed in the same career. No 
sooner does a woman begin to feel herself 
the idol of society, than she finds around her 
daily path innumerable temptations, of which 
she had never dreamed before. Her exalted 
position is maintained, not by the universal 
suffrage of her friends, for at least one half 


of them would pluck her down if they were | 


able ; but by. the indefatigable exercise of her 


\ 


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a Se AS 


ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, 
conciliating, and sometimes deceiving; as 
well as by a continued series of efforts to be 
cheerful when depressed, witty when abso- 
Jutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amu- 
sing, when disappointed, weary, or distressed. 

When we think that all this must be gone 
through, evening after evening, in the same 
company, as well as among strangers, and 
without excitement as well as with, in order 
to prevent the title of the occupant of that 
distinguished place from being disputed, we 
are led to exclaim, that the miner, the con- 
vict, and the slave have an easier and a hap- 
pier lot than hers. Nor is this all. The 
very eminence on which she stands, renders 
all her faults and failures so much the more 
conspicuous ; while’it enables every stander- 
by to test the validity of her pretensions, and 
to triumph over every flaw. 

What a situation for a woman!—for a 
young, affectionate, trusting, and simple- 
hearted woman! No, never yet was sim- 
plicity of heart allied to ambition. And the 
woman who aspires to be the idol of society, 
must be satisfied to give up this fair hand- 


coronet—this white rose from her wreath. 
When a woman’s simplicity of heart is gone, 
she is no longer safe as a friend, faithful as a 
sister, or tender and true as a wife. But as 
a mother! nature revolts from the thought, 
that infant weakness should be cradled in the 
bosom whose simplicity is gone. 

Another form which the love of distinction 
assumes, is that of singularity. I have al- 
ready said much on the subject of good 
taste, to show that it holds an important 
place among the excellences of woman, so 
much so, as almost to supply the want of 
judgment, where that quality is deficient. 

Nothing, however, can more effectually prove 
the absence of good taste in women, than to 
be singular by design. Many are so consti- 
tuted as to be unavoidably singular; but 
even this is only reconciled by their friends 
on the ground that they would lose much in 
originality and strength of character, by study- 

ing to be more like the generality of women. 


SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 


maid from her train—this pearl from her. 


77 


One of the most wholesome and effectual 
checks upon this juvenile and ill-judged de- 
sire*to be singular, might be derived from the 
fact, that singularity in woman invariably 
excites remarks, that such remarks almost 
as invariably degenerate into scandal, and 
that scandal always destroys good influence. 
However innocent a woman may be, how 
much soever she may desire to be useful to 
others, the fact of her being the subject of scan- 
dal effectually destroys her power ; for no one 
likes to be dictated to by a person of whom 
strange things are spoken ; and the agent of 
Christian benevolence is always less efficient, 
for being generally considered odd. Still, if 
the world would pause here, all might be . 
well. But our oddities, while they provoke 
the laughter of the gay, seem unaccountably 
to have the effect of awakening the anger of 
the grave; so that we not unfrequently find 
persons more severely reflected upon for 
comparatively innocent peculiarities, than for 
acts of real culpability. 

A repetition of such reflections and injuri- 
ous remarks passing through society, upon 
the principle of a snow-ball over a drifted 
plain, obtains in time a sort of bad name, or 
questionable character, for the individual 
against whom they are directed, which no 
explanation can do any thing to clear away ; 
because founded on facts of so singular a 
nature, that few people understand how, in 
the common course of things, they could 
have happened, and consequently few have 
charity enough to believe they could origi- 
nate in any thing but evil. It is thus that the 
character of woman so often suffers unjustly 
from her oddities. Strangers cannot under- 
stand why we acted as we did, enemies sug- 
gest a bad motive as the most probable, gos- 
sips take up the scandal, and friends in their 


turn believe it true; while we, surprised and 


indignant that so innocent a mode of action 
should bear so injurious a construction, are 
unable to defend it, simply because it was 
out of the ordinary pale of human conduct, 
though prompted by the same motives which 
influence the rest of mankind. 

It may justly be said of the world, that in 


78 


one sense it is a cruel censor of woman ; but 
in another it is kind. It is, as I have just 
described, unjustly severe upon indivfdual 
singularity ; but by its harsh and ready cen- 
sures, how many does it deter from entering 
upon the same course of folly, so sure to end 
in wounded feeling, if not in loss of influ- 
ence and respectability ! 

Let it then be kept in mind, that woman, if 
she would preserve her peace, her safe foot- 
ing in society, her influence, and her unblem- 
ished purity, must avoid remark as an indi- 
vidual, at least in public. The piquant amuse- 
ments of home, consist much in the display 
of originality of character, and there it is safe. 
There her feelings are understood, her mo- 
tives are trusted to, because they have been 
long known, and there the brooding wing of 

|| parental love is ever ready to shroud her 
|| peculiarities from too dangerous an exposure. 
In the world it is not so. Society is very 
false to us in this respect. For the sake of 
an evening’s entertainment, singularity is en- 
couraged and drawn out. The mistress of 
the house, who wishes only to see her party 
amused, feels no scruple in placing this 
temptation before unguarded youth. But let 
not the ready laugh, the gay response, the 
flattering attention fora moment deceive you 
as to the real state of the case. It is “seem- 
ing all,”’ and those who have been the most 
amused by your singularities, will not be the 
last to make them the subject of bitter and 
injurious remark. 

If these observations upon society should 
appear to any, cynical or severe, or calcula- 
ted to depress the natural ardor of youth, 
rather than direct it into safer and more 
wholesome channels; it must be remembered, 
that my design throughout this work, is to 
speak of the world as it is, not merely as it 
ought to be; and though I know there are 
circles of society, where aims, and motives, 
and laws.of union exist, of a far higher order 
than to admit of the falsehood or the little- 
ness to which I have alluded; yet such, it 
must be acknowledged, is the general tone of 
| Ordinary visiting or mixing in company, that 
| the follies of unguarded youth meet with little 


fest. 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


candor, and still less kind correction, even 
among those who are associated with us ‘as 
friends. I know that the voice of experience 
is an unwelcome one, when thus lifted up 
against that of the world, which speaks so 
smoothly in its first intercourse with the young 
and inexperienced ; and far more delightful 
would it be, to send forth the joyous spirit 
into social life with all its native energies un- 
checked. ‘There is one grateful and welcome 
thought, however, which reconciles the task 
I have imposed upon myself. Itis, that none 
of these energies need therefore be destroyed, 
or deprived of natural and invigorating exer- 
cise. There are home-societies, and little cho- 
sen circles of tried and trusted friends ; meet- 
ings, perhaps, but rarely occurring, or only 
accidental, among those who speak with dif- 
ferent voices the warm familiar language of 
one heart; and here it is that the genuine 
feelings of unsophisticated nature may safely 
be poured forth; here it is that youth may 
live, and breathe, and be itself, alike without 
affectation, and without reserve; here it is, 
that the spirit of joy may bound and revel 
unrestrained, because all around it is the at- 
mosphere of love, and the clear bright radi- 
ance of the sunshine of truth. . 

There is yet another flight of female ambi- 
tion, another course which the love of distine- 
tion is apt to take, more productive of folly, 
and of disappointment, perhaps, than all the 
It is the ambition of the female author 
who writes for fame. Could those young 
aspirants know how little real dignity there is 
connected with the trade of authorship, their 
harps would be exchanged for distaffs, their 
rose-tinted paper would be converted into 
ashes, and their Parnassus would dwindle to 
a molehill. 

Still there is something which the young 
heart feels in being shut out from intellectual 
sympathies at home—something in burning 
and throbbing with unexpressed sensations, 
until their very weight and intensity become 
a burden not to be endured; something in 
the strong impulse of a social temperament, 
which longs to pour forth its testimony to the 
force of nature and of truth ;\'something in 


—— eS Se Oe + rnin ei 


| OS Re ee, MAY RR Se VN TA A ote 


AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 


SOCIETY, FASHION, 


ee ictoiiorehib audrey those mysterious, but deep convictions, which 
belong to every child of earth, that some- 
where on this peopled globe, beneath the 
glow of sunnier skies; or on the frozen plain, 
|| the desert, or the ocean; amidst the bowers 
of beauty, or the halls of pride; within the 
hermit’s cave, the woodman’s cot, or wan- 
dering with the flocks upon the distant hills ; 
there is—there must be, some human or 
spiritual intelligence, whose imaginations, 
powers, and feelings, operate in concert with 
our own. And thus we feel, and thus we 
write in youth, without any higher motive, 
because within our homes, tracing our daily 
walks, or mixing with the circle called socie- 
ty, we find no chord of sympathy which 
answers to the natural music of our secret 
- souls. 
All this, however, is but juvenile romance. 
The same want of sympathy which so often 
| inspires the first effort of female authorship, 
;| might often find a sweet and abundant inter- 
change of kindness in many a faithful heart 
beside the homely hearth. And after all, 
there is more true poetry in the fireside affec- 
tions of early life, than in all those sympa- 
thetic associations with unknown and untried 
developments of mind, which ever have ex- 
isted either among the sons or the daughters 
of men. 


Taking a more sober view of the case, there 
are, unquestionably, subjects of deep interest. 


with which women have opportunities pecu- 
liar to themselves of becoming acquainted, 


and thus of benefiting their fellow-creatures. 
But, 
after all, literature is not the natural channel 
for a woman’s feelings; and pity, not envy, 


through the medium of their writings. 


ought to be the meed of her who writes for 
the public. 


commendations, of amateur or professional 
critics! How much of what no woman loves 
to say, except to the listening ear of domestic 
affection, by her must be told—nay, blazoned 
to the world! And then, in her seasons of 
depression, or of wounded feeling, when her 


How much of what with other | 
women is reserved for the select and chosen 
intercourse of affection, with her must be laid 
bare to the coarse cavillings, and coarser 


79 


spirit yearns to sit in solitude, or even in dark- 
ness, so that it may be still; to know and feel 
that the very essence of that spirit, now em- 
bodied in a palpable form, has become an ar- 
ticle of sale and bargain, tossed over from the 
hands of one workman to another, free alike 
to the touch of the prince and the peasant, 
and no longer to be reclaimed at will by the 
original possessor, let the world receive it as it 
may ! 

Is such, | ask, an enviable distinction? I 
will offer no remarks of my own upon the 
unsatisfactory nature of literary fame. No 
mah, or woman either, could write for the 
public, and not feel thankful for public appro- 
bation; thankful for having chosen a subject 
generally interesting to mankind, and thank- 
ful that their own sentiments had met with 
sympathy from those for whose sake they had 
been expressed. But, on this subject, I will 
quote the eloquent language of one,* who bet- 
ter knew what contradictory elements exist 
in a young, an ardent, and an affectionate 
heart, combined with an aspiring and com- 

manding intellect. 

“What is fame to woman, but a dazzling 
degradation. She is exposed to the pitiless 
gaze of admiration ; but little respect, and no 
love, blends with it. However much as an 
individual she may have gained in name, in 
rank, in fortune, she has suffered as a woman. 
In the history of letters, she may be associated 
with men, but her own sweet life is lost; and 
though, in reality, she may flow through the 
ocean of the world, maintaining an unsullied 
current, she is nevertheless apparently ab- 
sorbed, and become one with the elements of 
tumult and distraction. She is a reed shaken 
with the wind; a splendid exotic, nurtured 
for display ; an ornament only to be worn on 
birth-nights and festivities; the aloe, whose 
blossom is deemed fabulous, because few can 
be said to behold it; she is the Hebrew whose 
songs are demanded in a ‘strange land ;’ 
Ruth, standing amid the ‘alien corn;’ a 
flower, plunged beneath a petrifying spring ; 
her affections are the dew that society ex- 


* Miss Jewsbury. 


hales, but gives not back to her in rain; she 
is a jewelled captive, bright, and desolate, 
and sad!” 


CHAPTER VIIL. 


GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 


As one who has been conducting an inex- 
perienced traveller through an enemy’s coun- 
try, joyfully enters with him upon the territory 
of a well-known and familiar friend ; so the 
writer, whose stern duty it has been to dis- 
close the dangers and deceitfulness of the 
world to the unpractised eye of youth, de- 
lights to open to it that page of human life, 
which develops all that is most congenial to 
unsophisticated nature. And can any thing 
be more so to woman, than gratitude and af- 
fection? How much of her experience— 
of the deepest well-sprihgs of her feeling—of 
those joys peculiar to herself, and with which 
no stranger can intermeddle—are embodied 
in these two words! 

If our sense of obligation in general bears 
any proportion to our need of kindness, then 
has woman, above all created beings, the 
greatest cause for gratitude. The spirit of 
man, even in early life, bears a widely differ- 
ent impress from that of woman. The high- 
spirited and reckless boy flings from him half 
the little grievances which hang about the 
girl, and check her infant playfulness, send- 
ing her home to tell her tale of sorrow, or to 
weep away her griefs upon her mother’s bo- 
som. There is scarcely a more affecting 
sight presented by the varied scenes of hu- 
man life, than a motherless or neglected little 
girl; yet so strong is the feeling her situation 
inspires, that happily few are thus circum- 
stanced, without some one being found to 
care for and protect them. It is true, the lot 
of woman has trials enough peculiar to itself 
and the look of premature sedateness and 
anxiety, which sometimes hangs upon the 
brow of the little girl, might seem to be the 
shadowing forth of some vague apprehensions 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


as to the nature of her future destiny. These 
trials, however, seldom arise out of unkind- 
ness or neglect in her childhood. The voice 
of humanity would be raised against such 
treatment; for what living creature is so help- 
less and inoffensive as a little girl? The 
voice of humanity, therefore, almost univer- 
sally speaks kindly to her in early life. The 
father folds her tenderly in his arms, toils for 
her subsistence and comfort, and watches 
over her expanding beauty, that he may shield 
it from all blight. The mother’s heart yearns 
fondly as she, too, watches with more intense 
anxiety, lest a shadow should fall, or a rude 
wind should blow, upon her opening flower. 
Thus, while the sons in a family may perhaps 
call forth more of the pride and the ambition 
of their parents, the daughters claim almost all 
the tenderness, and more than an equal por- 
tion of watchfulness and care. 

And can the object of so much solicitude 
be otherwise than grateful? Oh, no. Itmay 
be more consonant with the nature and with 
the avocations of man, that he should go forth 
into the world forgetful of these things; but 
woman, in the quiet brooding of her secret 
thoughts—can she forget, how, in the days 
of helpless infancy, she was accustomed to 
escape from the rude gaze, or harsh rebuke, 
to find a never-failing refuge on her father’s 
knee; how every wish and want was whis- 
pered to her mother’s ear, which never turn- 
ed away; how all things appropriated to her 
use, were studiously made so safe, so easy, 
so suited to her taste—her couch of rest, her ; 
favorite meal, her fairy-world of toys—all 
these arranged according to her fancy, or her 
good ; until, all helpless, and feeble, and de- 
pendant as she was, no fear could break the 
charm of her security, nor sorrow, save what 
originated in her own bosom, could cast a 
shadow over the fireside pleasures of her 
sunny home? 

* No; woman is not—cannot be ungrate- 
ful,”? exclaim a thousand sweet voices at 
once! Gratitude forms a part of her nature, 
and without it she would be unworthy of a 
name among her sex! I freely grant that 
gratitude is a part of her nature, because 


there can be no generous or noble character, 
where gratitude is wanting. But I am not 
so sure that it is always directed to proper 
objects. 

Young women are almost always grateful 
for the notice of ladies of distinction; they 
are grateful for being taken out in carriages, 
when they have none at home; they are 
erateful for presents of ornaments, or articles 
of fashionable clothing which they cannot af- 
ford to buy; they are grateful for being invi- 
ted out to pleasant parties: and, indeed, for 
what may they not be said to be grateful— 
extremely grateful? but especially so, for acts 
of kindness from strangers, or from persons 
occupying a higher station than themselves. 

There is a familiar saying, that charity be- 
gins at home; and if by home is meant the 
circle immediately surrounding ourselves, 
surely gratitude ought also most especially to 
begin at home, and for this simple reason— 
strangers may know, or imagine us to have 
great merits; but with our demerits, or per- 
haps [ ought rather to say, with that part of 
our character which comes under the head 
of disagreeableness, they must necessarily be 
unacquainted, because no one chooses to be 
disagreeabie to strangers. Against them, too, 
we have never offended, either by word or 
act, so that they can have nothing to forgive. 
But it is not so at home. All our evil tempers 
and dispositions have been exhibited there, 
and consequently the kindness received at 
home is the more generous. There is no one 
member of the family circle against whom 
we have not, at one time or another, offend- 
ed, and consequently we owe them a double 
share of gratitude, for having kindly over- 
looked the past, and for receiving us as cor- 
dially to their favor as if we had never cost 
them an uneasy thought. It is nothing, in 
comparison, to win the good-will of strangers. 
The bare thought of how soon that good-will 
might be withdrawn, did they know us better, 
is sufficient of itself to pain a generous mind. 
But it is much to continue daily and hourly 

| to receive the kind attentions, the forbearance 
| and the love of those who know our meanest 
faults, who see us as we really are, who have 


ee Se RL A 
Sea 
RG SS a ad 


| GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 81 


borne with us in all our different moods for 
months and years, whom our unkindness 


could not estrange, whom our indifference 
could not alienate, whom our unworthiness 
could not repel—it is, indeed, much to be still 
followed by their affection, to be protected by 
their anxious care, and to be supported by 
their unremitting industry and toil. Yes, and 
there may come a day when the young in 
their turn will feel 


“ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 
To have a thankless child :” 


when they will see the smile of gratitude 
which ought to be their own, worn only for 
strangers, they will think then of the days of 
unmurmuring labor—the nights of untiring 
watchfulness—the ages of thought and feel- 
ing they have lived through, and would will- 
ingly experience again—the suffering and 
the shame they would endure, if that were 
necessary, for the sake of the beloved of their 
souls; and they will wonder—for to blame, 
they will scarce know how—why nature 
should have left the heart of their child so 
void, that for all they have so lavishly bestow- 
ed they should receive nothing in return. 

If gratitude were looked upon more than 
it is, as a distinct duty—a debt to be dis- 
charged without involving any other pay- 
ment, [ am inclined to think its claims would 
be more frequently attended to, than they now | 
are. But few young persons are in the habit 
of sufficiently separating gratitude from ad- 
miration, and thus they hold themselves 
above being grateful in due proportion to the 
aged, the unenlightened, or the insignificant ; 
because they do not often feel disposed to 
offer to such persons the tribute of their praise. 
Perhaps they are a little ashamed to have 
owed any thing to so inferior a source ; while, | 
on the other hand, they are but too proud to | 
acknowledge that they are deeply indebted 
to those whom they admire. 

Now, it is against such encroachments of 
vanity and selfishness, that the amiable and 
the high-principled are perpetually on their 
guard. hat gratitude will not grow up with 
us without culture, is sufficiently evident from 


82 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


a 


the indifference with which all young children 
treat the donors of their little gifts; receiving 
them rather as their right, than as a favor. 
It is, therefore, an excellent habit for young 
people, 1o bear perpetually in mind a sort of 
memorial, or catalogue, of the names of those 
by whom every article of their own personal 
property was given, so that even the most 
insignificant individual to whom they have 
been thus indebted, may not be forgotten. 
“Tam naturally,” says a celebrated Ger- 
man writer, “as little’ inclined to gratitude 
as any one; and it would even be easy for 
the lively sense of a present dissatisfaction to 
lead me first to forget a benefit, and next to 
ingratitude. In order to avoid falling into 
| this error, I early accustomed myself to take 
pleasure in reckoning up all I possessed, and 
ascertaining by whose means I acquired it. 
I think on the persons to whom I am indebt- 
ed for the different articles in my collections ; 
I reflect on the circumstances, chances, and 
most remote causes, owing to which [ have 
obtained the variors things I prize, in order 
to pay my tribute of gratitude to whomso- 
ever itis owing. All that surrounds me is 
thus animated in my sight, and becomes con- 
nected with affectionate remembrances. It 
is with still greater pleasure that I dwell on 
the objects, the possession of which does not 
fall within the dominion of the senses; such 
as the sentiments I have imbibed, and the 
| instruction I have received. ‘Thus my pres- 
ent existence is exalted and enriched by the 
memory of the past; my imagination recalls 
to my heart the authors of the good I enjoy ; 
a sweet reminiscence attends the recollection, 
and I am rendered incapable of ingratitude.” 
How beautiful is the simplicity of this con- 
fession, from one whose mind was capacious 
beyond the ordinary extent of man’s under- 
standing, and to whose genius the literary 
and the distinguished of all nations were 
proud to offer the tribute of their praise ! 
How completely does this passage prove to 
us, that he who knew so many of the secrets 
of human nature, knew also that it is not 
possible to begin too humbly with the ex- 
ercise of gratitude! The nurse who bore the 


our payment of it. 


burden of our childhood, the old servant fallen 
into poverty and want, the neighboring cot- 
tager who used to let us share her orchard’s 
scanty produce, the poor relations who took | 
us to their lowly home when rich ones were 
less kind, the maiden aunt who patiently in- 
structed us in all her curious arts, the bache- 
lor uncle who kindly permitted us to derange 
the order of his house—above all, the vener- 
able grandfather, and his aged helpmate, who 
used to tell us of the good old ways, and 
warn us against breaking down the ancient 
landmarks—all these are pleasant household 
memories, which ought to cling about the 
heart until they grow into our very being, and 
become identified with the elements of thought, 
and feeling, which constitute our life. There 
is in fact a species of cruelty, as well as in- 
justice, in disentangling the memory from 
these early associations. To have received 


.our very nature, our principles, the bias of 


our sentiments, all that which is understood 
by distinctiveness of character, from the 
hands of these old friends, and not to look 
back and acknowledge it with thankfulness, | 
though the casual notice of a passing stran- 
ger furnishes food for gratitude—the fact is 
scarcely to be thought of, still less believed ; 
and we look to the daughters of England to 
show us that they know better how to bestow 
their gratitude. | 

When the nature of gratitude is considered | 
in its proper light, as a debt which we have 
contracted, and which consequently must be 
discharged, we see at once that the merit or 
demerit of the individual to whom we owe 
this debt, has nothing whatever to do with 
A generous mind would 
perhaps feel more bound to discharge it to an 
unworthy object, simply because where re- 
spect or love was wanting, grateful feeling 
would be all that could with propriety be of- 
fered. But, as in all such cases, the debt, 
though just, must still be painful and humili- 
ating, it is of the utmost importance, both to 
young and old, that they should be careful 
never to be. the willing recipients of obliga- 
tions from persons whom they neither love 


/noresteem. The young need great watch- 


GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 


‘ 


fulness in this respect, and sometimes, from 
their over-willingness to incur obligations, 
involve themselves in connections and asso- 
ciations highly disadvantageous. 

It is an excellent plan for young women, 
always to put this question to themselves be- 
fore they accept an offered kindness. “Is 
the person who offers it, one whom I should 
like to feel indebted to ? or am J prepared to 
make all the return of gratitude to that per- 
son, which would, under similar circum- 
stances, be due to the mo:# praiseworthy and 


distinguished individual of my acquaint- 


ance?” If the answer be in the negative, 
nothing but a meanness of spirit, of which I 
cannot believe the daughters of England to 
be capable, could lead to the acceptance of 
such an obligation. 

In this, therefore, as well as in ,all other 
cases, it is of the utmost importance that 
gratitude should be considered as a distinct 
feeling, in no way involving any other. It 
sometimes happens, however, and especially 
during the present rapid march of intellect, 
that the junior members of a family are far 
in advance of their parents in the cultivation 
of their intellectual powers, and this differ- 
ence occasionally leads to a want of respect 
towards the heads of the family, which is 
alike distressing and disgraceful. On the 
other hand, there are young women, (and 
happy would it be for our nation, if all the 
daughters of England were such,) who, re- 


| membering that their parents, however hum- 


ble and unenlightened, are their parents still ; 
that by their self-denial and their toil, and as 
the highest proof of their regard, they have 
received the education which makes them so 
much to differ—make it their constant study 
to offer to them tokens of respect and regard 
of such a nature as not to draw forth their 
intellectual deficiencies, but to place them 
on the higher ground of moral excellence. 
How beautiful, how touching is the solicitude 
of such young persons, to guard the venera- 
ted brow from shame ; and to sacrifice even 
something of the display of their own en- 


~dowments, rather than outshine those who, 


with all their deficiencies, still were the ora- 


83 


€ 

cles of their infant years, and who unques- 
tionably did more during the season of child- 
hood, towards the formation of their real 
character, than has since been done by 
the merely intellectual discipline of schools. 
Yes, we may owe our grammiar, our geogra- 
phy, our music, and our painting, to what 
are called the instructors of our youth; but 
the seeds of moral character are sown by 
those who surround us in infancy ; and how 
much soever we may despise the hand by 
which that seed is scattered, the bias of our 
moral being is derived from that agent more 
than from any other- 

How just, then, and how true, is that de- 


velopment of youthful gratitude which looks | 


back to these early days, and seeks to return 
into the bosom of parental love, the treasures 
of that harvest which parental love has sown! 

And it is meet that youth should do this— 
youth, whose very nature it is to be redun- 
dant with the rills of life, and fruitful in joy, 
and redolent in bloom, from the perpetual 
flowing forth of its own glad waters—youth, 
which is so rich in all that gladdens and ex- 
hilarates ; how can it be penurious and nig- 
gardly in giving out? No, nature has been 
so munificent to youth, it cannot yet have 
learned the art of grudging ; and gratitude, 
the most liberal, the most blessed of all hu- 
man feelings, was first required of us as a 
debt, that we might go on paying according 
to our measure, through all the different sta- 
ges of existence; and though we may never 
have had money or rich gifts, the poorest 
among us has been able to vay in kindness, 
and sometimes in love. 

In the cultivation and exercise of the be- 
nevolent feelings of our nature, there is this 
beautiful feature to be observed in the order 
of divine providence—that expenditure never 
exhausts. Thus the indulgence of gratitude, 
and the bestowment of affection, instead of 
impoverishing, render more rich the fountain 
whence both are derived ; while, on the other 
hand, the habit of withholding our generous 
affections, produces the certain effect of 
checking their growth, and diminishing the 
spontaneous effusion of kindness. 


SE i Ee 


A 


84 


The habit of encouraging feelings of grati- 
| tude towards our fellow-creatures, of recall- 
| ing their friendly and benevolent offices to- 
| wards ourselves, of thinking what would 

| have been our situation without them, and, 
| in short, of reckoning up the items of the 
| great debt we all have incurred, especially in 
| infancy and youth, has a most beneficial effect 
| upon the mind, in the bias it gives towards 
the feeling and expression of gratitude in 
_|| general, not only as confined to the inter- 
course of social life, or the “interchange of 
kindness among our fellow-creatures, but 
with regard to the higher obligations of grati- 
tude, which every child of sin and sorrow 
must feel, on being admitted to participation 
in the promises of the gospel, and the glori- 
| ous hopes which the gospel was sent to in- 
| spire. 
| LD have said, that women, above all created 
| beings, have cause for gratitude. Deprived 
| of the benefits of the Christian dispensation, 
| woman has ever been, and will be ever the 
most abject, and the most degraded of crea- 
tures, oppressed in proportion to her weak- 
ness, and miserable in proportion to her capa- 
bility of suffering. Yet, under the Christian 
| dispensation, she who was the first in sin, is 
| raised to an equality with man, and made. 
his fellow-heir in the blessings of eternal life. 
Nor is this all. A dispensation which had 
permitted her merely to creep, and grovel 
through this life, so as to purchase by her 
| patient sufferings a title to the next, would 
| have been unworthy of that law of love by 
| which pardon was offered to a guilty world. 
In accordance with the ineffable benevolence 
of this law, woman was therefore raised to a 
moral, as well as a spiritual equality with 
man ; and from being first his tempter, and 
then his slave, she has become his helpmate, 
his counsellor, his friend, the object of his 
most affectionate solicitude, the sharer of his 
| dignity, and the partaker in his highest enjoy- 
ments. 

When we compare the situation of wo- 
man, too, in our privileged land, with what it 
is even now in countries where the Christian 

| religion less universally prevails, we cannot 


———_ 


THE DAUGHTERS. Of ENGLAND. 


help exclaiming, that of all women upon 
earth, those who live under the salutary in- 
fluence of British laws and British institu- 
tions, have the deepest cause for gratitude. 
And can the daughters of Britain be regard- 
less of these considerations? Will they not 
rather study how to pay back to their coun- 
try, in the cultivation and exercise of their 
best feelings, the innumerable advantages 
they are thus deriving. And what is the 
sacrifice? Oh, blessed dispensation of love ! 
—that we are never so happy as when feel- 
ing grateful, and never so well employed, as 
when acting upon this feeling ! 
While, then, they begin first by retracing 
all the little rills of kindness by which their 
cup of benefit has been filled, let them not 
pause in thought, until they have counted up 
every item of that vast catalogue of blessings 
which extend from human instrumentality, to 
divine; nor let them pause in action, until 
they have rendered every return which it is 
possible for a finite being, aided by watchful- 
ness and prayer, to make. 
What a subject for contemplation does this 
view of gratitude afford, to those who say 
they find nothing to terest them in human 
life! What a field of exercise for those who 
complain that they find nothing to do! 
Affection, too, is a subject in which the in- 
terests of woman are deeply involved, be- 
cause affection in a peculiar manner consti- 
tutes her wealth. Beyond the sphere of her 
affections, she has nothing, and is nothing. 
Let her talents be what they may, without aft 
fection they can only be compared to a splen- 
did casket, where the gem is wanting. Af- | 
fection, like gratitude, must begin at home. 
Let no man choose for the wife of his bosom, 
_a woman whose affections are not warm, and 
cordial, and ever flowing forth at her own 
fireside. Yetthere are young women whose 
behavior in society, and among those whom 
they call their friends, exhibits every sign of 
| genuine affection, who are yet cold, indiffer- 
ent, and inconsiderate to their brothers, sis- 
ters, and parents. These are the women | 
| against whom men ought to be especially | 
warned, for sure I am, that such affection 


| 
| 
ae 


A 


EE RS I TR 


eee 
a | ET 


GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 


re ce never to be trusted to, as that which 
is only called into life by the sunshine of so- 
ciety, or the excitement of transient inter- 
course with comparative strangers. 

Affection also resembles gratitude in this, 
that the more we bestow, the more we feel, 
provided only it is bestowed upon safe and 
suitable objects. It is the lavish and reckless 

expenditure of this treasure in early life, and 
| simply under the direction of fancy, without 
ptogaad to natural claims, which so often leaves 
ine heart of its possessor poor, and cold, and 
joyless. | 
Here, then, the claims of nature and of 
home may always be attended to with safety. 
_\| No young girl can be too affectionate at home, 
because the demerits of a brother, a sister, or 
a parent, except in some rare and peculiar 
instances, constitute no disqualification for be- 
ing the recipients either of her gratitude or 
her affection. But her approval and her ad- 
miration must still be kept distinct, lest her 
affection for an unworthy relative should ren- 
der her insensible to the exact line of demar- 
cation between moral good and evil. Were 
it not thus wisely and mercifully permitted us 
to continue to love our nearest connections, 


| 
even when not deserving of general esteem, 


where would the prodigal, or the outcast, be 
able to find a shelter, when tae horrors of a 
wounded conscience might drive them back 
from the ways of guilt? 
is subject to a higher, holier law than that 
which separates her erring child from the fel- 
lowship of mankind ; the father meets his re- 
turning son while yet afar off; and the sister 
—can she withhold her welcome *—can she 
neglect the study of all those little arts of love, 
by which a father’s home may be rendered as 
alluring as the world? 

While the young of both sexes are suffer- 
ing from the consequences of a system of ed- 
ucation, under which the cultivation of moral 
principle bears no proportion te the cultiva- 
tion of the intellectual powers, it is desirable 
| to offer all the assistance we can in the im- 
provement of that portion of human charac- 
ter which is at once the most important and 
the most neglected. In order to strengthen 


The mother’s heart: 


the good resolutions of those who are really | 
desirous of paying the attention and the re- |) 
spect to old age which is justly its due, I would 
suggest to the accomplished young reader, an 
idea which it-is highly probable may never 
before have crossed her mind, but which I 
feel assured will stain her cheek with shame, 
if she has ever allowed herself to treat her pa- 
rents, or even her grand-parents with con- 
tempt, as inferior in the scale of consideration 
to herself, because of their want of mental 
cultivation. 

Let her remember, then, whatever their de- 
ficiency in other points of wisdom may be, 
that there is one in which they must be her 
superiors. She may occasionally be obliged 
to correct their grammatical inaccuracies ; 
she may be able not only to dazzle them with 
her accomplishments, but even to baffle them 
in argument; yet there is one fundamental 
part of true knowledge, in consideration of 
which, every youthful head must bow to age. 
Not ten thousand times the sum of money 
expended on your education would be suffi- 
cient to purchase this treasure of human wis- 
dom for you. And there sits the aged wo- 
man, with her white locks, and her feeble. 
hands, a by-word, and perhaps a jest, from 
the very helplessness of worn-out nature ; yet, 
all the while, this humble and neglected being 
may be rich in the wealth which princes are 
too poor to buy ; for she is rich in experience, 
and that is where you are poor. The simple 
being you despise has lived to see the work- 
ing out of many systems, the end of many 
beginnings, the detection of much falsehood, 
the development of much truth; in short, 
the operation of principles upon the lives and 
conduct of men; and here, in this most im- 
portant point of wisdom, you are—you must 
be her inferior. 

The wisdom of experience, independently 
of every other consideration, presents a strong 
claim upon the respectful attention of youth, 
in cases where propriety of conduct is a dis- 
puted point between parent and child. Young 
persons sometimes think their parents too se- 
vere in the instructions they would enforce ; 
but let it ever be remembered, that those pa- 


a 


86 


rents have experience to direct them; and 
that, while the child is influenced only by in- 
clination, or opinion, founded upon what 
must at least be a very limited and superfi- 
| cial knowledge of things in general, the opin- 
! ion of the parent is founded upon facts, 

which have occurred during a far longer ac- 
quaintance with human nature, and with 


'| what is called the world. 
Let the experience of the aged, then, be 


weighed against your modern acquirements, 
and even without the exercise of natural af- 
fection, we find that they are richly entitled 
to your respectful attention. But there is 
something beyond this consideration in the 
overflowing of the warm and buoyant feel- 
ings of youth, which so naturally and so beau- 
tifully supply the requirements of old age, that 
scarcely can we picture to ourselves a situa- 
tion more congenial to the daughters of Eng- 
land, than one of those fireside scenes, where 
| venerated age is treated with the gratitude 
| and affection which ought ever to be consid- 
| ered as its due. 
| It sometimes happens that the cares and 
| the anxieties of parental love have a second 
time to be endured by those who have had to 
| mourn the loss of their immediate offspring. 
| Perhaps a family of orphan sons and daugh- 
ters have become their charge, at a time of 
| life when they had but little strength of body, 
| or buoyancy of spirit, to encounter the turbu- 
| lence of childhood, and the waywardness of 
| youth. How admirably, then, are the char- 
| acter and the constitution of woman adapted 
i} to the part which it becomes her duty and 
her privilege toact. Even the kindest among 
| boys would scarcely know how to accommo- 
date himself to the peculiarities of old age. 
| But woman has an intuitive perception of 
| these things ; and the little playful girl can be 
gentle and still, the moment she sees that her 
restlessness or loud mirth would offend. 

And what woman, I would ask, was ever 
less estimable for this early exercise of self- 
discipline? None can begin too soon. The 
labor of love is never difficult, except to those 
who have put off compliance with this sacred 
duty until too late in life; or who, while the 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. | 


affections of the heart were young and warm, 
have centred them in self, and lived for self 
alone. 
nation loves to dwell, are those where self 
has never found a place among the house- 
hold gods. 
ters of a family, from the oldest to the very 
infant, are all too happy in the exercise of 
their affections, to think of self. Theirs is a 
relative existence, and their enjoyments con- 


young so seldom enter into close and intimate 


The social scenes upon which imagi- 


| 
They are those where the daugh- | 
| 


tions thus cherished in the cordial intercourse 


of home, may early be sent forth on errands | 
of kindness to all who are fortunate enough {| 
to come within the sphere of their opera- | 
tions; and happy is the man who chooses 

from such a family the companion of his | 
earthly lot! 


| 

sist more in giving than receiving. Affec- | 
| 

| 


CHAPTER IX. 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 


How much of what is most lovely, and 
most valuable to us in the course of our 
earthly experience, arises out of the poverty 
and the feebleness of our nature. Friend- 
ship would never have existed, but for the 
absolute want of the human heart, from its 
utter inability to perform the functions of life | 
without a participator in its joys, a recipient 
of its secrets, and a soother of its sorrows. 

Youth is the season when we most feel this 
want; later in life, we learn as it were to 
stand alone. Interests and claims, which 
have little to do with the affections, press up- 
on us on every hand, and hem us into a nar- 
row and accustomed path, from which there 
is little temptation to deviate. But in youth 
we seem to walk at large, with no boundary 
to our horizon ; and the fear and uncertain- 
ty which necessarily attend our movements, 
render a companion, with whom we may con- 
sult, deliberate, and sympathize, absolutely 
necessary to our cheerfulness and support. 

It is a subject of surprise to many, that the 


friendship with the members of their own 
family. Were this more frequently the case, 
how much more candor and simplicity of 
| heart would mingle with the intercourse of 
friends! ‘To the members of our own fami- 
ly, we must of necessity appear as we reaily 
are. No false or flattering aspect can de- 
ceive those whose eyes are constantly upon 
our conduct ; and we are consequently less 
tempted to put forward our best feelings before 
them, in the hope of concealing our worst. 
In such intimacies the nearest friends have 
the least suspicion of each other’s truth. Af- 
ter-circumstances can bring forth no unex- 
pected development of character on either 
side; nor can there be the wounded feeling, 
which falsehood, however unpremeditated or 
unconsciously practised, never fails to pro- 
duce. Again, there would be the strength of 
natural ties to mingle with this bond the rec- 
ollections of childhood, the oft-repeated for- 
giveness, the gratitude to which allusion has 
already been made—all these would blend to- 
gether in a union the most sacred, and the 
most secure, which perhaps is ever found on 
earth. 
Nor do I scruple to call this union the most 
secure, because it is the only intimacy in 
which every thing can with propriety be told. 


There are private histories belonging to every 

family, which, though they operate powerful- 
ly upon individual happiness, ought never to 
be named beyond the home-circle ; and there 
are points of difference in character, and 
mutual misapprehensions, with instances of 
wounded feeling, and subjects of reproof and 
correction, which never can be so freely 
touched upon, even in the most perfect union 
of conjugal affection. On this subject, how- 
ever, I have already spoken so fully in an- 
other work,* that little room is left for further 
notice here: I will, therefore, only allude to 
some of the causes which I believe most fre- 
| quently operate against young persons choos- 
ing their confidants at home, and especially 
for the communication of their religious feel- 
ings or impressions. 


* The Women of England. 


Es ee 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 


| 
| 
H 
} 
4 
| 
to be to that friend exactly what she is at 


87 


— 


It isa melancholy thought, that the want of 
consistency in the private and domestic habits 
of religious professors, may possibly be the 
means of inducing young persons to seek their 
spiritual advisers among those with whom 
they are less intimately acquainted, and of 
whom they have consequently formed a high- 
er estimate; while, on the other hand, a dif- 
fidence of themselves, perhaps a misgiving, 
both as to their past and future conduct, ren- 
ders them unwilling to communicate fully and 
freely with those who daily watch their steps, 
lest the suspicion of hypocrisy should fall up- 
on them for having given utterance to senti- 
ments and emotions, so much at variance 
with the general course of their lives. 

‘That these hindrances to home-confidence hi 
should sometimes exist, where the parties are | 
perfectly sincere in their good intentions, | am | 

| 
| 


a i i 
Ree ee = oe a el 


SE SR Sn ee es 


quite prepared to believe; but there are oth- | 


-er cages, and perhaps more frequent ones, in 


which the sincerity is less perfect, where the 
dread of being committed to any particular 
line of conduct consistent with the sentiments 
or emotions expressed, operates against their 
being so much as spoken of to any who com- 
pose the family circle. 

It would be taking a dark view of human 
nature, indeed, to suppose that those who 
know us best are less disposed than strangers | 
to attach themselves to us; yet, Il would ask 
the young aspirant to intimacy with a new 
acquaintance, whether she is entering upon 
that intimacy with a sincere and candid wish 


home? If not, she is, to all intents and pur- 
poses, a deceiver. And there is much deceit 
in all our early friendships, though I am far | 
from supposing it to be all intentional. In- 
deed, | am convinced it is not, because this 
heart-searching process is what few young 
persons submit to, before commencing an in- 
timacy. 

In friendship, as well as in all other recip- 
rocal engagements, it is highly important to 
limit our expectations of benefit according to 
the exact measure of our deserts; and by 
this means we may avoid many of those bit- 
ter disappointments, for which the world is 


88 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


so unjustly and unsparingly blamed. ‘The 


H world is bad enough; but let us be honest, 
(| and take our share of condemnation, for 


making at least one item of the world such 


as itis; and by thus acquiring the habit of | with equal injustice. 


strict and candid self-examination in early 


| life, we see that we have little right to charge 
i the world with falsehood, when our first en- 


gagement, beyond the circle of our own fam- 


| ily, has been entered into by a system of de- 


aon 


ceit. 


in worldly circumstances ; because they must 
always be incapable of judging of persons 
more highly gifted than themselves, and thus 
they will bestow their praise and their blame 
The ignorant, too, are 
always prejudiced; and, therefore, in the 
choice of friends whose minds are unen- 
lightened, the young must necessarily incur 
the risk of imbibing opinions formed upon 
false conclusions, which in all probability will 
exercise a powerful influence upon the whole 


There is, too, a rashness and impetuosity | of their subsequent lives. 
| in the formation of early friendships, which 
| of themselves are sufficient to render such 
| intimacies uncertain, and of short duration. 


Few characters can be considered as really 


formed, under the age of twenty-one, or 


twenty-five; yet friendships sometimes be- 
gin ata much earlier date. It is not in na- 


| ture; then, that the friend we loved at sixteen, 
| Should be the same to us at twenty-six; or 
that the features of our own character should | advise, as well as pity ! 


have undergone no change during that pe- 
riod. Yet it must not be called falsehood, or 
fickleness either, which causes such friend- 
ships to fail. It is consistent with the laws 


Young people are too apt to think the 
only use of talent is to interest in conversa- 
tion; if; then, they find themselves interested 
without it, they are satisfied to dispense with 
this quality in a friend. But how empty— 
how unprofitable must become that intimacy 
where mind is not taken into account—how 
worthless, how unsatisfactory in every case 
of trial, the society of that friend who cannot 


Were it not for equality being requisite to 
the mutual participation of the pleasures of 
friendship, I should strongly recommend all 
young persons to seek a friend among those 


| of reason, and of nature, that they should | who are older, and more experienced than 


do so; for had the same individuals who 
thus deplore each other’s falsehood, met for 
the first time at the age of twenty-six, they 
would probably each have been the very last 
which the other would have chosen as a 


{| friend. 
| Again, there must be an equality in friend- | of relationship should render the office of the 


} ship, to render it either lasting or desirable— 
an equality not only in rank and station, but, 


as far as may be, in intellectual advantages. 
However warm may be the attachment of 


themselves. In this case, however, too much 
must not be expected in return, for it is 
scarcely possible that the ccnfiding intimacy 
of a young girl should always be interesting, || 
or even acceptable to a woman more ad- | 
vanced in life; unless, indeed, the kindness 


elder confidant a welcome duty. 

Regardless of these wholesome rules, it is 
more than probable that the greater part of 
my young readers will go on forming inti- 


two friends of different rank in society, they | macies according to circumstances, or indi- 


must occasionally be involved. in dilemmas, 
from which it is impossible to escape without 
wounded feeling, either on one side or both. 


| Each of these friends, it must be remembered, 


will have her relatives and connections, 


through whom her pride will be perpetually | deavor to retain as friends?’ 


vidual fancy, and with little reference to fu- 
ture consequences. In time, however, some 
of these intimacies will become irksome, 
while others will die away. It will then be- 
come a serious question, “ Whom shall I en- 
Try, then, to 


subject to imaginary insult, and her suscepti- | ascertain, in this stage of your short experi- 


bility to real pain. ‘Those who are inferior in 


ence, whose society has had the happiest 


as friends, than those who are inferior only | this great question remain unsettled, until 


mind are, however, much more objectionable | effect upon your own character ; and let not 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 89 


a ————_—_ 
An 


| you have ascertained, with regard to each one 

of the individuals who have composed your 
circle of nominal friends, whether they have 
| generally left you better or worse for a day 
| spent in their company—more willing to 
| submit to the requirements of religious duty, 
| or more disposed to consider those require- 
| ments unreasonable and severe. 

The pleasure or amusement immediately 
| derived from the society of an individual, is 
| a dangerous and deceitful test by which to 
| try the value of their friendship; but the di- 
| rect influence of their society upon our own 
| state of mind, not while they are with us, 
| but after the charm of their society is with- 

drawn, is a means of judging, which no ra- 
tional and responsible being ought to neglect. 

If, for instance, in the circle of our favorite 
associates, there is one who habitually awa- 
kens the laughter of merriment, and charms 
into magic fleetness the hours you pass to- 
gether; yet if the same individual leaves 
you flat, and dull, and indisposed for the use- 
ful and less pleasing occupations of life; be- 
ware of making her your friend. But if 
there be another who, possibly less amusing 
at the time you converse together, yet leaves 
you raised above the common level of expe- 
rience, by the support of true and lofty prin- 
ciples; disposed to reject what is false or 
mean, and to lay hold on what is good; 
lifted out of the slavery of what is worldly 
or trifling, and made stronger in every gen- 
erous purpose, and every laudable endeavor; 
let the friendship of that individual be bound 
around your heart, and cherished to the end 
of life, as one of the richest blessings per- 
mitted us to enjoy on earth. 

By this rule, those who are candidates for 

our friendship, may safely be tried ; but there 
is yet a closer test, which must be applied. to 
friendship itself Ifthe friend you have cho- 
‘sen, never attempts to correct your faults, or 
make you better than you are, she is not 
worthy of the name; nor ought she to be 
“fully confided in, whatever may be the ex- 
tent of her kindness to you, or the degree of 
her admiration of your character. 

Having well chosen your friend, the next 


thing is, to trust her, and to show that you 
doso. Mutual trust is the strongest cement 
of all earthly attachments. We are so con- 
scious of weakness ourselves, that we need 
this support from others ; and no compliment 
paid to the ear of vanity was ever yet so 
powerful in its influence, as even the sim- 
plest proof of being trusted. ‘The one may 
excite a momentary thrill of pleasure, the 
other serves, for many an after day, to nour- | 
ish the life-springs of a warm and generous 
heart. 

It is needless to say how effectually a sus- 
picious, or a jealous temper, destroys this | 
truth. If we really loved our friends as we 
ought, and as we probably profess to love 
them, we should be less watchful of their 
conduct towards ourselves, than of ours to } 
them ; nor should we grudge them the inti- 
macy of other friends, when conducive to 
their enjoyment, if our own attachment was 
based upon pure and disingerested affection. 
Friendship, which is narrowed up between 
two individuals, and confined to that number 
alone, is calculated only for the intercourse 
of married life, and seldom has been main- 
tained with any degree of lasting benefit or 
satisfaction, even by the most romantic and 
affectionate of women. True friendship is 
of a more liberal and expansive nature, and 
seldom flourishes so well as when extended 
through a circle. A circle of young female 
friends, who love and trust each other, who 
mutually agree to support the weak in their 
little community, to confirm the irresolute, to 
reclaim the erring, to soothe the irritable, and 
to solace the distressed; what a realization 
does this picture present of the brightest 
dreams of imagination, when we think what 
woman might be in this world to her own 
sex, and to the community at large! 

And is this, then, too much to expect from 
the daughters of England—that woman should 
be true to woman? In the circle of her pri- 
vate friends, as well as from her own heart, 
she learns what constitutes the happiness and 
the misery of woman, what is her weakness. 
and what her need, what her bane and what. 
her blessing. She learns to comprehend the 


i a 
Se a ee ES 


A 2 


| 


| 90 : THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


deep mystery of that electric chain of feeling | given or received, or even of the number of 


which ever vibrates through the heart of wo- 
man, and which man, with all his philosophy, 
can never understand. ‘She learns that every 
touch of that chain is like the thrilling of a 
nerve; and she thus acquires a power pecu- 
liar to herself, of distinguishing exactly be- 
tween the links which thrill with pleasure, 
and those which only thrill with pain. 

Thus, while her sympathy and her tender- 
ness for a chosen few is strengthened by the 
bond of friendship into which she has entered, 
though her confidence is still confined to them, 
a measure of the same sympathy and tender- 
ness is extended to the whole sisterhood of 
her sex, until, in reality, she becomes what 
woman ever must be—in her noblest, purest, 
holiest character—the friend of woman. 

What should we think of a community of 
slaves, who betrayed each other’s interests ? 
of a little band of shipwrecked mariners upon 
a friendless shore, who were false to each 
other? of the inhabitants of a defenceless na- 
tion, who would not unite together in earnest- 
ness and good faith against a common enemy? 
We are accustomed to hear of the meanness 
of the powerful, when they forsake the weak ; 
but there is a meanness of a lower grade— 
when the weak forsake each other. 

No party, however, can be weak, which 
has truth for its element, and love for its bond 
of union. Women are only weak in their 
vanity, their selfishness, their falsehood to 
each other. In their integrity, their faithful- 
ness, their devoted affection, they rise to an 
almost superhuman eminence; because they 
are strong in the elements of immaterial be- 
ing, and powerful in the nature which is ca- 
pable, when regenerated, of being shared 
with angels. 

From the nature of true friendship, we turn 
to the consideration of what are its require- 
ments. These, also, are mutual. If we ex- 


pect to receive, we must be studious to give. 
An interchange of kind offices and evident 
proofs of affection are essential to the vitality 
of friendship ; avoiding, however, the slightest 
approach to any thing like a debtor and 
creditor account of the number of presents 


letters exchanged. 

It seems a strange anomaly in friendship, 
that young persons, however ardently attach- 
ed, should so seldom write, except when a 
letter is considered to be due by a certain 
length of time having elapsed since the last 
was received. It often happens, that one 
friend is particularly engaged, while the other 
has an abundance of unoccupied time; but 
a letter is still required by the idle party, or 
the love which she thinks so glowing and so 
tender, finds no channel of expression to her 
friend. Perhaps a friend is ill; and then is 
the time, above all others, when real love 
would dictate a succession of kind letters, 
such as would not tax the afflicted, or the 
feeble one, with the effort of making any re- 
turn. There is, in fact, a mystery about the 
letter-writing of young women, which I have 
never been able fully to understand. It oc- 
cupies their time; it used to drain their purses, 
or the purses of their friends! it calls forth 
more complaining than almost any thing else 
they have to do; the letters they receive are 
seldom fraught with much interest; and yet 
they plunge into this reciprocity of annoyance, 
as if the chief business of life was to be wri- 
ing or receiving letters. 

Still, I am very far from supposing that 
this means of interchanging sentiment and 
thought, might not be rendered highly bene- 
ficial to the youthful mind ; because I believe 
writing is of great importance as a branch of 
education. Without this habit, few persons, 
and especially women, think definitely. The 
accustomed occupation of their minds is that 
of musing ; and they are, consequently, sel- 
dom able to disentangle a single clear idea 
from the current of vague thoughts, which 
they suffer perpetually to flow, and which 
affords them a constant, but, at the same time, 
a profitless amusement, in the variety of ideas 
it presents, alike without form, and void. 
But, in order to write with any degree of per- 
spicuity, we are, to a certain extent, compel- 
led to think; and consequently, the habit of 
writing letters, if the subject-matter be well 
chosen, might be rendered highly advantage- 


' 


ous to young women, who, on the termina- 
tion of their scholastic exercises, require, more 
than at any other time of life, some frequently 
recurring mental occupation, to render their 
education complete. 

The art of writing a really good letter ranks 
unquestionably among the most valuable ac- 
complishments of woman, and next to that 
of conversing well. In both cases, the first 
thing to be avoided, is common-place ; be- 
cause, whatever partakes of the nature of com- 
mon-place, is not only vulgar, but ineffective. 

I know not how I can better define this 
term, so frequently used, and so little under- 
stood, than by saying that common-place con- 
sists chiefly in speaking of things by their 
little qualities, rather than their great ones. 
Thus it is common-place to speak of religious 
persons as using cant, to speak of distinguish- 
ed characters as being well or ill-dressed, and 
to speak of the works of Shakspeare as be- 
ing peculiar in their style. It is also common- 
place to use those expressions of kindness, or 
sympathy, which custom has led us to expect 
as a matter of course. And we never feel 
this more, than in cases of affliction or death ; 
because there is a kind of set phraseology 
made use of on such occasions, which those 
who really feel would often be glad to vary, 
if they only knew how. It is common-place 
to speak of some fact.as recently discovered, 
to those who have long known it. But above 
all that is genuine in common-place, the kind 
of flattery generally adopted by men, when 
they mean to address themselves pleasantly 
to women, deserves the credit of pre-emi- 
nence. Indeed, so deficient, for the most 
part, is this flattery, in point, originality, and 
adaptation, that 1 have known sensible wo- 
men, who felt more really flattered by the 
most humiliating truths, even plainly spoken ; 
because such treatment implied a confidence 
in their strength of mind and good sense, in 
being able to bear it. 

Common-place letters are such as, but for 
the direction, would have done as well for 
any other individual as the one to whom they 
are addressed. In description especially, it 
is desirable to avoid common-place. A cor- 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 


91 


respondent making a tour of the Lakes, tells 
you that on sucha day she set off to the sum- 
mit of Helvellyn. That the first part of the 
ascent was steep and difficult, the latter more 
easy; that the view from the summit was 
magnificent, extending over so many lakes, 
and so many other mountains; and there 


-ends the story; and well for you, if it does 
But such writers unfortunately | 


end there. 
often go on through a whole catalogue of 
b@auties and sublimities, no single one of 
which they set before you in such a manner 
as to render it one whit more attractive, or in- 
deed more peculiar in any of its features, 
than the king’s highway. 

In the vain hope of avoiding common- 
place, some young writers have recourse to 


extravagant expressions when describing lit- 


tle things ; a mode of writing, which, besides 
being the medium of falsehood, leaves them 
in the uncomfortable predicament of having 
no language adequate to what is great. 

lt is difficult to say what is the direct 
opposite of common-place, without giving 
lengthened quotations from the best style of 
epistolary correspondence, with which the lit- 
erature of our country during the last cen- 
tury abounds. ‘There is a quality both in 
writing and conversation, to which I can 
give no other name than freshness, which is 
not only opposite in its nature and effect to 
common-place, but on which I believe de- 
pends more than half the pleasure and amuse- 
mentewe derive from the intercourse of mind 
with mind. Few persons possess this charm ; 
because few are humble enough to suppose 
that it would be any advantage to them; 
and those who do, are always in danger of 
losing it by writing too much. The letters of 
a woman of moderate abilities, and limited 
sphere of observation, may possess this great 
beauty ; while those of a more highly gifted, 
or accomplished writer, may want it; be- 
cause it must ever depend upon a capability 
of receiving vivid impressions, combined with 
a certain degree of simplicity of heart. 

The first consideration in commencing a 


letter should be, “ What is my object in wri- |: 


ting it?” Ifsimply for the relief of your own 


| 
| 
| 


| mind you take up the pen, remember that 
/ such a communication can only be justified 
‘by pressing and peculiar circumstances, and 

that it ought only to be addressed to the 
1 nearest, and dearest of your friends, whose 
love for you is of such a nature as to pardon 
|| so selfish an act. 

A higher object in writing, is to give pleas- 
| ure, or afford benefit, to an absent friend; it 
is therefore necessary to place yourself in 
| idea in her circumstances, and consider wMat 

she would most wish to know. If her affec- 
| tion for you be such, and such I am aware 
affection often is, that she has no desire be- 
yond that of receiving intelligence concerning 
'! yourself, let your descriptions of your state 
and circumstances be clear and fresh ; so that 
|; she‘may see you as you really are, and, as it 
were, live with you through the enjoyments 
or the trials of every day. How strong and 
lively may be the impressions thus conveyed 
—how deep the interest they excite, provided 
only the writer will condescend to be suffi- 
ciently simple—sufficiently sincere ! 


| 
| 


4 


| 


It is, however, only under peculiar circum- 


tion, that young persons can have much of 
this kind to communicate. What then are 
they to say? Shall the minute details of fam- 
ily affairs be raked up, to fill their letters? 
This is at least a dangerous alternative, more 
especially as it too frequently induces a habit 
of exaggeration, in order to make what is 
called “a good story” out of a mere trifle ; 
and thus, that worst kind of falsehood, which 
is partly true, becomes perpetuated through 
the medium of pen and paper. © 

To avoid this danger on the one hand, 
and the weariness of writing without any 
thing to say, on the other, would it not be 
practicable for young women to agree, for 
their own improvement and that of their 
friends, to correspond on some given subject, 
and if unequal to the task of treating it ina 
style of an essay, they might at least relate 
to each other some important or amusing 


I ie IS eh EDAD SESS * UIE OE OT ETE TL DEA A TE 


of their reading, and by relating them in their 
;| Own language, and then comparing them with 


|e 


| 92 | THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


stances, such as change of scene and situa- | 


facts, which they had met with in the course - 


that of the author, they would be learning 
valuable lessons in the art of composition ? 
for of all kinds of style, that of easy narrative || 
is the most useful. 
The study of nature in this department of | 
mental improvement, might be made to afford 
a never-failing source of interest, both for in- | 
dividual thought and familiar communication. | 
The peculiarities of plants and animals, and 
even the different traits of human character 
developed by people of different countries 
and grades of society, might all contribute to 
the same object, so as in time to displace 
from the page of female correspondence, the 
trifling, the common-place, or the more mis- 
chievous gossip, which that page too gener- 
ally unfolds. | 
In speaking of a mutual interchange of 
tokens of affection being essential to the vi- | 
tality of friendship, I am far from including 
under this head, those expressions of endear- 
ment which are sometimes used by young 
women, so indiscriminately, as entirely to 
lose their individual force and value. Indeed, 
Tam not quite sure that terms of endearment 
made use of as a matter of course, are desi- 
rable under any circumstances ; because there 
will be occasions, even with the most warmly 
attached, when the tones of the voice, and 
the expression of the countenance, indicate 
any thing but love ; and having heard these 
tender epithets still made use of on such oc- 
casions, it is scarcely possible to retain our | 
value for them when applied with real ten- 
derness and respect. It also frequently hap- | 
pens, where these epithets are commonly || 
used, that the very individual who has just |, 
been speaking to us injuriously of another, 


turns to the injured party with the same ex- 
pression of endearment so frequently applied 
to ourselves, and which we consequently be- 


come extremely willing to dispense with for 
the future. 

It is the peculiar nature of friendship, that 
it will not be mocked. All manner of weak- 
ness, and a fearful sum of follies and trans- 
gressions, it is willing to bear with ; but faith- 
fulness is a requisite without which it is im- |} 
possible it should continue to exist. It is not |! 


‘ 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 93 | 


necessary, in order to be faithful to our friends, 
that we should be always praising them, nor 
yet that we should praise them more than 
they deserve. So far from this, we do them 
real injury by too much praise, because it al- 
ways occasions disappointment in those who 
cultivate their acquaintance upon the strength 
of our evidence in their. favor. Nor is it 
necessary, when we hear their characters 
discussed in company, to defend them against 
every charge; at least to deny their having 
those faults which are conspicuous to every 
eye. But one thing is necessary on such 
occasions—that a friend should be ever 
prompt and anxious to bring forward the 
evidence which remains on the side of virtue, 
so far as it may be done with prudence and 
delicacy. 

The indulgence of caprice is another evil 
prevalent among the young, with which 
friendship disdains that her claims should be 
put in competition. 
those who frequently choose to act under a 
‘momentary impulse, in a manner opposed to 
the general and acknowledged rule of their 
conduct and feelings. ‘Thus the social com- 
panion of yesterday, may choose to be a 
stranger to-day. She may have no unkind- 
ness in her heart towards you, yet it may 
suit her mood to meet as if you had never 
met before. She may have no desire to give 
you pain, yet her looks may be as forbidding, 
and her manners as repulsive, as if she had 
never loved you. She may be habitually 
cheerful, yet her humor may be to hang 
her head, and lower her brow, and hardly 
articulate an answer when you speak to her. 

It is scarcely necessary to say, that few 
things are more ruinous to friendship, and to 
domestic and social happiness in general, 
than caprice ; because its very nature is to 
render every one uncertain, and to chill, to 
wound, or to irritate all with whom it comes 
in contact; while friendship requires that 
you should always be the same ; and nothing 
can be more painful to the feelings of a friend, 
than to find that caprice, or the indulgence 
of your own humor, is a matter of more 
importance to you than her happiness. Such 


Capricious persons are | 


wounds, however, are happily not incurable. | 
Friendship, thus repulsed, is soon withdrawn ; 
and the capricious woman has the satisfac- 
tion of finding herself left at last to the enjoy- 
ment of her different moods alone. There 
is, in short, something in the very nature of || 
caprice so selfish and ungenerous, so opposed 
to all the requirements of affection, that in 
no connection in life, except where the tie is 
indissoluble, can it long be endured. 

But while we are justified in acting upon 
the repulsion which caprice so naturally ex- 
cites, there are other trials which, if true, 
friendship must submit to endure; because 
they necessarily spring out of the nature of 
the human heart, and, instead of being 
checked by the influence of society, they are 
fostered by it, and subsist upon the very ele- 
ments of which it is composed. One of these 
evils is a spurious kind of social intercourse, 
falsely denominated friendship, which, unfor- 
tunately, sometimes links itself with the true. 
I say falsely, for that friendship is not worthy 
the name, which is founded upon tale-bear- 
ing and detraction. Yet, how much of the 
intimacy of young women consists in the 
magnifying and telling of little troubles, par- 
ticularly of a domestic nature, and most com- 


-monly injurious to some member of the 


household to which they belong. 

Let the young be especially warned against 
this most insidious and most dangerous 
temptation; and let them be assured, that 
there are few causes of more bitter repent- 
ance in after life, than the reflection that they 
have thus wantonly made themselves enemies 
to those of their own house. ‘There is one 
fact which ought of itself to deter them from 
the indulgence of this habit. It is, that 
friendship based on such a foundation is 
never lasting. No; friendship must have 
love, not hate, for its element. If the inti- 
macy of youth consists in evil speaking, and 
injurious thoughts, it soon becomes assimi- 
lated with the poisonous aliment on which it 
feeds. The friend becomes an enemy; and 
what is the consequence? The shafts of 
slander are turned against yourself, and the 
dark secrets you have revealed, go forth to 


' 


——————— 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


ence cee et TT a TT Te Te eee ee am ee nee ee ee ea ee og 


94 


the world as swift witnesses against you, as 
well as against those to whom duty and nat- 
ural affection should have kept you true. 
Besides which, there are few cases of hu- 
man conduct where inexperienced youth can 
be a correct or sufficient judge. It may ap- 
pear to you at the time you speak of family 
grievances, that a parent has been too severe, 
that a sister has been selfish, or that a brother 
has been unjust. But you are not even ca- 
pable of judging of yourself, as regards the 
impression produced by your own behavior 
upon others; how then can you pronounce 
upon the motives of others in their behavior 
to you? more especially how are you to lift 
the veil of experience, and penetrate the deep 
mysteries of parental love? yet, how other- 
wise are you to understand 


— 


* The secrets of the folded heart 
That nesined to thee so stern it 


‘ o 
ay 


— 
ce TE ES 


heres, are hom of human beings, once’ 
“partakers. with us. in the privileges and en- 
joyments of our native land, now branded 
with infamy, and toiling in chains upon a dis- 
tant shore, who have to regret, when too late, 
| some guilty theft committed in early youth 
upon the property of a confiding and indul- 
gent master. And the voice of our country 
cries out against them for the injury and in- 
gratitude, as well as for the injustice, of what 
‘they have done. And is it possible that with- 
in the fair and polished circles of the same 
favored land, where woman blooms and 
smiles, and youth is radiant with joy, and 
happy in the security of domestic peace—is 
it possible that woman can so far forget her 
| heart-warm affection, her truth, her devoted- 
ness of soul, as, while her hands are pure 
from the contamination of so foul a crime as 
theft, to permit her tongue to be the instru- 
ment of injury more deep than robbery— 
more bitter than the loss of wealth? 

We will not—we cannot believe it; be- 
| cause the time is coming when the daughters 
|| of England, admonished of their duties on 

every hand, will learn to look, not to the 

mere gratification of an idle moment, in what 
they say, and what they do, but to the eter- 


ee ee 


nal principles of right and wrong ; and to the 
great balance in which human actions are 
weighed, in reference not only to time, but to 
eternity. 

It is good for many reasons that youth 
should early acquire a habit of checking its | 
own'‘impulses, and never is this more impor- 
tant than when under temptation to speak 
injuriously of others. A few years more of 
experience, a few more instances of personal 
trial, a little more self-knowledge, and a little 
more observation of others, will in all proba- 
bility open your understandings to an entirely 
altered view of human nature, of the motives 
which influence the conduct of mankind, as 
well as of the claims of affection, when com- 
bined with those,of duty. You will then see — 
how unjust have been your first conclusions, 
how your thoughts have wronged those 
whom you were unable to understand ; and 
happy will it be for you when making this dis- 
covery, to reflect that you have scrupulously 
kept your erroneous views and, injurious 
suspicions confined to the knowledge of your 
own heart. 

Friendship, if true, has much to bear from 
the idle and mishievous gossip of society. 
Indeed, gossip may justly be considered as 
having destroyed more youthful attachments, 
than selfishness, falsehood, or vanity ; though 
all these three have done their part in the 
work of destruction. It is easy to say, “I 
care not for such and such injurious reports ;”” 
“'The opinion of the world is of no conse- 
quence to me;’’ and it is undoubtedly the 
part of wisdom not to allow such causes to 
operate against our peace of mind. Unfor- 
tunately, however, for us, the world is made 
up of our friends, as well as of those who 
are strangers to us; and in this world it is 
the malignant office of gossip to set afloat 
rumors of what is evil, rather than statements 
of what is good. Were such rumors wel- 
comed only by the credulity of strangers, 
they would certainly be of little consequence 
to us; but, alas for the faithfulness of affec- 
tion! our friends, though at first surprised, 
at last believe them; and then comes the 
trial of friendship, for to be injuriously and 


unjustly thought of by those who ought to 
know us better, and simply because common 
|| report has circulated some charge against us, 
| is that, which, perhaps more than any thing 
else, destroys our confidence in the profes- 
sion, the language, the very name of friend- 
ship. 


in life, has ever been found most admirable, 
when most severely tried; and I know that 
_ her friendship is equal to remaining unshaken 
'| by difficulties and dangers, which might well 
be supposed to move a firmer nature than 
hers. But I speak of the little trials of mi- 
nute and every-day experience, for it is 
against these that wornan seldom brings her 
highest principles and best feelings to bear. 
It is in the sunshine of society that friendship 
most frequently withers, because the “love 
that tempests never shook” may expire un- 
der the deadly breathing-upon of common 
slander. 
On the first view of this subject, it seems 
impossible to believe that mere gossip, which 
“we unanimously agree to regard as being in 
so many instances false, should operate with 
such potency in dissolving the tenderest ties 
of early life. YetI appeal to experience, and 
observation too, when I ask, whether the 
ranks of society are not thronged with indi- 
viduals closely assimilated in their habits and 
ways of thinking, mutually in. want of the 
consolations of friendship, and adapted to 
promote each other’s happiness, of whom it 
may be said with melancholy truth, 


« Alas ! they had been friends in youth, 
But whispering tongues can poison truth.” 


What then is the part which friendship 
| ought to act in a case where rumor is strong 
| against a friend? 
| ship is always a straightforward and decided 
one. First ask whether the charge brought 


eee Fat ES CO 


| with the principles you know to regulate her 


| conduct in general, wholly at variance with 


the sentiments uniformly expressed in her 


confidential intercourse with you, and wholly 


| at variance with the tenor of her previous life. 


The character of woman in every situation » 


The part of true friend- | 


against your friend be wholly at variance 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 95 


If such be the case, reject it with a noble in- 
dignation ; for even if in one instance your 
friend has actually departed from the general 
principles of her conduct, her habitual senti- 
ments, and her accustomed mode of action— 
and if in the end you find that the world has 
all the while been right, while you have been | 
mistaken—it is better a thousand times to 
have felt this generous, though misplaced 
confidence, than to have been hastily drawn 
in to entertain an injurious suspicion of a 
friend. 

Still, where the evidence is strong against 
a friend, where it increases and becomes con- 
firmed, it would be blindness and folly to 
continue to disregard it. But before you 
yield even to such accumulating evidence, 
more especially before you act upon it, or | 
suffer one syllable to pass your lips in sup- 
port of the charge, or even of other charges 
of a similar nature to that openly alleged, 
fail not, as you value every thing that is just 
and equitable in the conduct of one human 
being towards another—fail not to appeal di- 
rectly to the injured party, so as to allow her 
an opportunity of exculpating, or at least of 
excusing, herself. 

If this had but been done in one instance 
out of a thousand, where slander has scat- 
tered her poison upon the foundation of hu- 
man love, what a different position would 
woman now maintain in the scale of moral 
excellence! How much of real good the 
hand of friendship might by this means have 
drawn out from seeming evil; how many a 
wounded bosom the balm of friendship might 
have healed; how many of those who are 
now lonely and unloved might have been 
linked together in the endearing fellowship 
of mutual affection ! 

People talk as if the worst thing that could 
happen to us, was to be deceived ; they dare 
not be genérous, they dare not trust, because 


they should thereby incur the risk of being 
deceived. That this theory may very prop- 
erly be acted upon in business, I am quite | 
disposed to allow ; but if in friendship there 
is no other alternative than to listen to injuri- 
ous rumor, to lean to the side of suspicion, 


ES ) 


anu) 


96 


and to believe the first report against a friend, 
let me rather be deceived a thousand times, 
for.then I shall at least enjoy the conscious- 
ness of having known what it was to trust, 
as well as -ove. 

Friendship has many trials. Though 
vanity and selfishness are at the root of 


| many of these, they are for the most part 


too minute, and apparently too trifling for 
description. Perhaps the greatest of these 
arises out of the undue value attached by 
women to the general attentions of men. 
For the assistance, the protection, and the 
disinterested kindness of the other sex, all 
women ought to be deeply grateful; but for 
those common attentions which good breed- 
ing dictates, without reference to the indi- 
vidual on whom they are bestowed, I own I 
cannot see why they should ever be so much 
the subject of envy among women, as to 
cast a shade upon their intercourse with each 
other. 

This part of my subject necessarily leads 
me to the consideration of what, for want of 
a more serious name, I am under the neces- 
sity of calling flirtation; by which I would 
be understood to mean, all that part of the 
behavior of women which, in the art of pleas- 
ing, has reference only to men. It is easy 
to understand whether a woman is guilty of 
flirtation or not, by putting her conduct to 
this simple test: whether, in mixed society, 
she is the same to women as to men. 

Although nothing could be more revolting 
to the feelings of a true-hearted woman, than 
needlessly to make a public exposure of the 
weaknesses and follies of her own sex, yet 
something of this is not only justifiable, but 
necessary in the present case, in order to 
contrast the conduct of those who are truly 
admirable, with that which is only adopted 
for the purpose of courting admiration. Nor 
would I speak uncharitably, when I confess 
that, like others, I have often seen a droop- 
ing countenance suddenly grow animated, an 
oppressive headache suddenly removed, and 
many other symptoms of an improved state 
of health and spirits as suddenly exhibited, 
when the society of ladies has become 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


varied by that of the nobler sex; and never 
does female friendship receive a deeper 
insult, than when its claims are thus su- 
perseded by those, perhaps, of a mere stran- 
ger. 

Though the practice of flirtation, or the 
habit of making use of certain arts of pleasing 
in the society of men, which are not used in 
that of women, is a thing of such frequent 
occurrence, that few can be said to be wholly 
exempt from it—yet we rarely find a woman 
so lost to all sense of delicacy, as to make an 
open profession of flirtation. Indeed, I am 
convinced that some do actually practise it 
unconsciously to themselves; and for this 
reason J am the more anxious to furnish 
them with a few hints, by which they may be 
better able to detect the follies of their own 
conduct. 

In the first place, then, allow me to ask, 
why it is necessary, or even desirable, for 
young women to do more to please men than 
women? ‘Their best friends, as friends only, 
will ever be found among their own sex. 
There is but one relation in life in which any 
of the men whom they meet with in mixed 
society can be any thing to them; and surely 
they can have no thought of marrying half 
those whom they take more pains to please, 
than they take in their intercourse with their 
own sex. What, then, can be the state of 
mind of her who exercises all her powers of 
fascination upon beings in whom she can have 
no deep or real interest? She must have 
some strong motive, or why this total change 
in her behavior, so that her female friends 
can scarcely recognise in her the same indi- 
vidual, who, an hour before, was moping, 
fretful, listless, and weary of herself and 
them? She must have some strong motive, 
and it can be no other than one of these 
two—either to gain the admiration, or the 
affection, of’ all those whom sh¢ favors with 
the full exhibition of her accomplishments in 
the art of pleasing. If her motive be simply 
to gain their admiration, it is a blind and 
foolish mistake into which her vanity has be- 
trayed her, to suppose that admiration is to 
be purchased by display, or to imagine that 


an 


_ 


on 


} 
the gratification of this desire. 


the open and undisguised claims she makes 
upon it, are not more calculated to disgust 
than attract. 
But there remains the second, and stronger 
motive ; and this would seem, at first sight, 
to demand more delicacy of treatment, since 
it is generally considered an amiable propen- 
sity in woman’s nature to desire to be be- 
loved. Let her, however, be honest, sincere, 
and honorable, in the means she adopts for 
Let her re- 
quire nothing for which she is not prepared 
to make an adequate return. The kindness, 
the generosity, the integrity of her character 
demand this. If, therefore, her desire be to 
obtain the love of all those with whom she 
engages in the business of flirtation, she is 
either on the one hand involved in a very 
serious and alarming outlay of affection, or, 
on the other, in a system of selfishness and 
meanness, for which every honest-hearted 
woman ought to blush. I have used the 
words selfishness and meanness, because the 


no better ; because it is selfish to endeavor to 
obtain that for which we know that a return 
will be expected, which we are not the least 
prepared to make ; because it is mean to use, 
in obtaining it, a degree of art which makes 
us appear better, or more admirable, than we 
really are. 

Is it not good, then, for woman to bear 
about with her, even in early life, the convic- 
tion that her only business with men in society, 
is to learn of them, and not to captivate or 
dazzle them? for there is a boldness—an in- 
delicacy, in this exercise of her influence, as 
much at variance with good taste, as with 
right principle, and real feeling. Is it not 
good, also, to bear about with her the remem- 
brance that no woman ought to be so bril- 
liant, or so agreeable in mixed society, as in 
her own domestic circle? There is no harm in 
pleasing, it is at once her privilege, and her 
power; but let her influence through the exer- 
‘cise of this means be what it may, there will 
come in after life sore trials, under which she 
will need it all; and poor indeed is that woman, 
who, when affection wanes, and disappoint- 


art of flirtation deserves to be described by 
| 


i, 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 


97 


ment chills the glow of youthful ardor, feels 
that she has expended all her powers of pleas- 
ing in public, or upon comparative strangers. 
I have said, that all women plead not guil- 
ty to the charge of flirtation in themselves ; 
yet, all are ready to detect and despise it ‘in 
their friends. All can detect in others, when 
the bland and beaming smile is put on for the 
occasion; when expressive looks are inter- 
changed ; when glittering curls are studious- 
ly displayed ; when songs are impressively | 
sung; when flowers which have been pre- 
sented, are preserved and worn; when un- | 
necessary attentions are artfully called forth ; |} 
but, above all, for it is best to cut short this ) 
catalogue of folly, when conversation is so in- 
geniously turned as to induce, and almost 
compel some personal allusion, in which a 
compliment must almost unavoidably be 
couched. | 
And in all this system of absurdity, contain- 
ing items of folly too numerous for tongue or 
pen to tell, from the glance of a beautiful eye, 
to the expression of a mutual sentiment; from 
the gathering of a favorite flower, to the awa- 
kening of a dormant passion ; from the pas- 
time of an idle moment, to the occupation of 
years ; in all this, it is deeply to be regretted, } 
that the influence of man is such, as to excite, 
rather than to repress—to encourage this | 
worse than folly, rather than to warn and to 
correct. Indeed, whatever may be the excel- 
lences of man in every other walk of life, it 
is a subject of something more than regret, 
that these excellences are so little called forth 
in his intercourse with woman in mixed soci- |. 
ety. Asa father, a husband, a brother, and 
a friend, his character assumes a totally dif- 
ferent aspect. And why, I would ask of him, 
if his eye should ever deign to glance over 
these pages,—why is he not the friend of wo- 
man in’ society, as well as in the more inti- 
mate relations of social and domestic life? 
Time was, when warriors and heroes deem- 
ed it not incompatible with glory or renown, 
to make the cause of helpless woman theirs. 
Nay, such was the respect in which her claims 
were held, that the banner could not wave in 
battle, nor the laurel wreath in peace, so 


proudly as when lances were broken, and 
lays were sung, in defence of her fair fame. 


On what did that fame then rest ?—on what 


must itrest forever? On her moral purity— 
on her exemption. from mean and grovelling 
thoughts, and on her aspirations after what 
is noble, and refined, and true. And is wo- 
man less deserving now, than she was a 
thousand years ago, of the kindness, the pro- 
tection, the honorable and fair dealing, of man? 
So far from this, she has made rapid progress 
in the work of moral renovation, having gain- 
ed in real worth, more than she has lost 
in romantic feeling. But one hindrance to 
her improvement still remains—one barrier 
against her progress in the path of wisdom 
and of truth. It is the influence of man, in 
his intercourse with her in general society. 
Perhaps he is not aware how powerful and 
extensive this influence is, or he would sure- 
ly sometimes endeavor to turn it to better ac- 
count. ‘I wish not to describe it in too flatter- 
ing a manner, by telling how many a young 
heart is made to throb for the first time with 
vanity, and idle thoughts, and foolish calcu- 


lations, in consequence of his flattery and at- 


tentions ; but it is most important he should 


know, that while women naturally and ne-| 
cessarily look to the stronger sex to give char- 
acter and decision to their own sentiments ; 
it is in the common intercourse of society, 


that such sentiments are implanted, fostered, 
and matured. 

To speak of the popular style of conversa- 
tion used by gentlemen when making them- 


selves agreeable to young ladies, as trifling, 


is the best thing we can say of it. Its worst 
characteristic is its fa'sehood, while its worst 


tendency is to call forth selfishness, and to 


foster that littleness of mind, for which man 
is avowedly the despiser of woman. 
lectual conversation occupies the*company, 
how often does he turn to whisper nonsense 


: | to woman ; if he sees her envious of the beau- 
f ty of her friend, how often does he tell her 
that her own charms .are unrivalled; if he 
discovers that she is foolishly elated with the 
triumph of having gained his attentions, how 
studiously does he feed her folly, waiting only 


If intel-. 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


for the next meeting with a boon companion, 
to treat the whole with that ridicule which it 
deserves—deserves, but not from him. 

It may be—I would fain believe it is, his 
wish that woman should be simple-hearted, 
intelligent, generous, frank, and true ; but how 
is his influence in society exercised to make 
her any one of these? Woman is blamed, 
and justly so, for idle thoughts, and trifling 
conversation ; but, | appeal to experience, and 
ask, whether, when a young girl first goes in- 
to society, her most trifling conversation is not 
that which she shares with men? It is true 
that woman has the power to repel by a look, 
a word, or even a tone of her voice, the ap- 
proach of falsehood or folly; and admirable 
are the instances we sometimes find of wo- 


-man thus surrounded as it were by an atmo- 


sphere of moral purity, through which no vul- 
gar touch can penetrate. Butall are not thus 
happily sustained, and it seems hard that the 
weaker sex should not only have to contend 
with the weakness of their own hearts; but 
that they should find in this conflict, so much 
of the influence of man on the side of evil. 
In speaking of friendship, I have said noth- 
ing of that which might be supposed to ex- 
ist between the two sexes; because:I believe, 
that, in early youth, but little good can accrue > 
to either party from making the experiment ; 
and chiefly for reasons already stated, that 
man, in his intercourse with woman, seldom. 
studies her improvement; and that woman, | 
in hers with man, is too much addicted to 
flirtation. ‘The opinion of the world, also, is |} 
opposed to this kind of intimacy; and it is 
seldom safe, and never wise, to do what.soci- 
ety unanimously condemns. Besides which, | 
it is exceedingly difficult for a young and in- | 
experienced girl to. know when a. man is real- 
ly her friend, and when he is only endeavor- | 
ing to gain her favor; the most serious mis- | 
takes are, therefore, always liable to be made, - 
which can only be effectually guarded against, - 
by avoiding such intimacies altogether. | 
Again, it is no uncommon thing for mento — 
betray young women into ‘little deviations | 
from the strict rule of propriety, for their own | 
sakes, or in connection with them; which | 


FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 


"deviations they would be the first to con- 


|| demn, if they were in favor of another. Be 
assured, however, that the man who does 

_this—who, for his own gratification betrays 
you into so much as the shadow of an error 
—who even willingly allows you to be placed 
in an exposed, a questionable, or even an 
undignified situation—in short, who subjects 
you, for his own sake, to the slightest breath 
of censure, or even of ridicule, is not your 

| real friend, nor worthy so much ‘as to be 
called your acquaintance. 

Fain would we hope and trust, that men 
who would do this, are exceptions to a gen- 
eral rule ; and, honorable it is to the sex, that 
there are those, who, without any personal 
interest. of their own being involved, are 
truly solicitous to raise the moral and intel- 
lectual standard of excellence among wo- 
men; men who speak the truth, and noth- 
ing but the truth, even to the trusting and 
too credulous; who never, for the gratifi- 
cation of an idle moment, stoop to lead the 
unwise still further into folly, the weak 
into difficulty, or the helpless into distress ; 
men who are not satisfied merely to pro- 
tect the feeble portion of the community, 
but who seek to promote the safety and the 
happiness of woman, by placing her on the 
sure foundation of sound principle; men 
who are ready to convince her, if she would 
but listen to their faithful teaching, that she 
possesses no beauty so attractive as her sim- 
plicity of heart, no charm so lasting as her 
deep and true affection, and no influence so 
powerful as her integrity and truth. 

I cannot leave the subject of the general 
behavior of women to the other sex, without 
adverting to a popular tendency among the 
young and inexperienced, to attach undue 
importance to the casual notice of distin- 
guished men; such as popular speakers, elo- 
quent ministers of religion, or any who hold 

| conspicuous situations in society. The most 
objectionable feature which this tendency as- 
sumes, is an extravagant and enthusiastic 
attachment to ministers of religion. I am 
| aware there is much in the character and of- 
| fice of a faithful minister, justly calculated to 


you may not only materially promote her 


call forth the respectful admiration both of 
young and old; that there is also much in 
his pastoral care of the individual members 
of his flock equally calculated to awaken 
feelings of deep and strong attachment ; and 
when such feelings are tempered with rev- 
erence, and kept under the proper restraint 
of prudence and good taste, it is unquestion- 
ably right that they should be cherished. 
‘My remarks can have no reference to young 
women whose conduct is thus regulated ; but 
there are others, chiefly of enthusiastic tem- 
perament, who, under the impression that it 
is right to love and admire to the utmost of 
their power, whoever is worthy of admira- 
tion, give way to a style of expression, when 
speaking of their favorite ministers, and a 
mode of behavior towards them, which is not 
only peculiarly adapted to expose them, as 
religious professors, to the ridicule of the 
world; but which, of itself, too plamly be- 
trays their want of reverence and right feel- 
ing on the subject of religion in general. 

But the duties of friendship remain yet to 
be considered in their highest and most im- 
portant character. We have never been in- 
timately associated with any one, even in 
early youth, without having received from 
them some bias of feeling, either towards good 
or evil; and the more our affections were 
engaged in this intimacy, the more decided 
this bias has been. What, then, has been the 
nature of our influence upon them ?—upon 
all to whose bosom-confidence we have been 
admitted? Is this solemn query to be re- 
served for the hour of death? or is it not the 
wiser part of youth to begin with its practical 
application, while the character is yet fresh 
and pliant, and before the traces of our influ- 
ence, if wrong, shall have become too deep 
to be eradicated 1 

If your friend is further advanced in reli- 
gious experience than yourself, be willing, 
then, to learn from her example; but be 
watchful, also, to point out with meekness 
and gentleness her slightest deviations from 
the line of conduct which a Christian pro- 
fessor ought to pursue; and by this means 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


nner 


highest interests, but you may also assist in 
promoting the interests of religion itself, by 
preserving it from the calumny and disre- 
spect for which such deviations so naturally 
give occasion. 

If your friend is less advanced than your- 
self in religious experience, or if, as is most 
probable, you are both in a backward and 
defective state, suffer not your mind on 
any account to become regardless of the im- 
portant fact, that in proportion to the degree 
of confidence you have enjoyed with that 
friend, and in proportion with the hold you 
/ have obtained of her affections, is the re- 
sponsibility you incur with regard to her 
moral and spiritual advancement. It is fruit- 
less to say, “J see her faults, | mourn over 
her deviations, but I dare not point them 
out, lest I wound her feelings, or offend her 
pride.” I know the task is difficult, perhaps 
the most so of any we ever undertake. But 
our want of disinterested love, and of real 
earnestness in the cause of Christ, render 
it more difficult than it would otherwise be. 

We might in this, as in many other in- 
stances, derive encouragement from what is 
accomplished by women in the way of sup- 
porting public institutions, and promoting 
public good. Look at some of the most deli- 
cate and sensitive females—how they pene- 
trate the abodes of strangers—how they per- 
‘severe through dangers and difficulties, re- 
pelled by no contumely, and deterred by no 
hardship, simply because they know that the 
work in which they labor is the cause of 
Christ. And shall we find less disinterested 
zeal, less ardor, less patience, less self-denial, 
in bosom-friends who share each other’s 
confidence and love? 

I'am the more anxious to impress these 
observations upon the young reader, because 
the present is peculiarly a time for laudable 
and extraordinary exertions for the public 
good; and because [ am convinced, that be- 
nevolent, and highly salutary, as these exer- 
tions are, they will never so fully answer the 
noble end desired, as when supported by the 
same principles faithfully acted upon in the 
intimate relations of private life. 


nn 


CHAPTER X. 
LOVE AND COURTSHIP 


Love is a subject which has ever been open 
to discussion, among persons of all classes, 
and of every variety of mind and character ; 
yet, after all, there are few subjects which 
present greater difficulties, especially to a fe-. 
male writer. How to compress a subject 
which has filled so many volumes, into the 
space of one chapter, is also another difficul- 
ty; but I will begin by dismissing a large 
portion of what is commonly called by that 
name, as wholly unworthy of my attention ; 
I mean that which originates in mere fancy, 
without reference to the moral excellence of 
the object ; and if my young readers imagine, 
that out of the remaining part they shall be 
able to elicit much amusement, I fear they 
will be disappointed ; for I am one of those 
who think that the most serious act of a wo- 
man’s whole life is to love. 

What, then, I would ask, is love, that it 
should he the cause of some of the deepest 
realities in our experience, and of so much 
of our merriment and folly ? 

The reason why so many persons act fool- 
ishly, and consequently lay themselves open 
to ridicule, under the influence of love, I be- 
lieve to originate in the grand popular mis- 
take of dismissing this subject from our se- 
rious reading and conversation, and leaving 
it to the unceremonious treatment of light 
novels, and low jests; by which unnatural 
system of philosophy, that which is in reality 
the essence of woman’s being, and the high- 
est and holiest among her capabilities, be- 
stowed for the purpose of teaching us of how 
much our nature is capable for the good of 
others, has become a thing of sly purpose, 
and frivolous calculation. 

The very expression—* falling in love,” 
has done an incalculable amount of mischief, 
by conveying an idea that it is a thing which 
cannot be resisted, and which must be given 
way to, either with or without reason. Per- 


sons are said to have fallen in love, pre- 
cisely as they would be said to have fallen 
into a fever or an ague-fit; and the worst 


LOVE AND COURTSHIP. 101 


of this mode of expression is, that among 
young people, it has led to a general yield- 
| ing up of the heart to the first impression, 
| as if it possessed of itself no power of re- 
| sistance. 


by the next balmy gale, which leaves the pic- 

ture more lovely for this momentary interrup- 

tion of its stillness and repose. 
But that which constitutes the essential 


ate 


hn AeA 


(I n 


It is from general notions such as these, 


.that the idea, and the name of love, have be- 
| come vulgarized and degraded: and in con- 
| nection with this degradation, a flood of evil 


has poured in upon that Eden of woman’s 
life, where the virtues of her domestic charac- 


ter are exercised. 


What, then, I would ask again, is love in 
its highest, holiest character? It is woman’s 
all—her wealth, her power, her very being. 
Man, let him love as he may, has ever an 


existence. distinct from that of his affections. 


He has his worldly interests, his public 
character, his ambition, his competition with 
other men—but woman centres all in that 
one feeling, and 


_ “In that she lives, or else she has no life.” 


In woman’s love is mingled the trusting 
dependence of a child, for she ever looks up 
to man as her protector, and her guide ;. the 
frankness, the social feeling, and the tender- 
ness of asister—for is not man her friend? 
the solicitude, the anxiety, the careful watch- 
ing of the mother—for would she not suffer 
to preserve him from harm? Such is love 
in a noble mind, and especially in its first 
commencement, when it is almost invariably 
elevated, and pure, trusting, and disinterest- 
ed. Indeed, the woman who could mingle 
low views and selfish calculations with her 
first attachment, would scarcely be worthy of 
the name. j 

So far from this being the case with wo- 
men in general, I believe, if we could look 
into the heart of a young girl, when she first 
begins to love, we should find the nearest 


‘resemblance to what poetry has described, as 


the state of our first parents when in Para- 


dise, which this life ever presents. All is 


then colored with an atmosphere of beauty, 
and light ; or if a passing cloud sails across 
the azure sky, reflecting a transitory shadow 
on the scene below, it is but to be swept away 


charm of a first attachment, is its perfect dis- 
interestedness. She who entertains this sen- | 
timent in its profoundest character, lives no 
longer for herself. In all her aspirations, her | 
hopes, her energies, in all her noble daring, 
her confidence, her enthusiasm, her fortitude, 
her own existence is absorbed by the interests 
of another. For herself}, and in her own 
character alone, she is at the same time re- 
tiring, meek, and humble, content to be neg- 
lected by the whole world—despised, forgot- | 


ten, or contemned; so that to one being only ||. 


she may still be all in all. 

And is this a love to be lightly spoken of, | 
or harshly dealt with? Oh no; but it has 
many a rough blast to encounter yet, and 
many an insidious enemy to cope with, be- 
fore it can be stamped with the seal of faith- 
fulness ; and until then, who can distinguish 
the ideal from the true? 

I am inclined to think it is from the very 
purity and disinterestedness of her own mo- 
tives, that woman, in cases of strong attach- 
ment, is sometimes tempted to transgress the | 
laws of etiquette, by which her conduct, even | 
in affairs of the heart, is so wisely restricted. | 
But let not the young enthusiast believe her- || 
self justified in doing this, whatever may be j 
the nature of her own sentiments. ‘The re- | 
strictions of society may probably appear to 
her both harsh, and uncalled for; but, I must | 
repeat—society has good reasons for the rules | 
it lays down for the regulation of female con- | 
duct, and she ought never to forget that 
points of etiquette ought scrupulously to be’ || 


observed by those who have principle, for | | 


the sake of those who have not. Besides 
which, men who know the world so much 
better than women, are close observers on 
these points, and nothing can lessen their 
confidence in you more effectually, than to 
find you unscrupulous, or lax, even in your 


behavior to them individually. If, therefore, 


your lover perceives that you are regardless 
of the injunctions of your parents or guardi- 


ans, even for his sake, though possibly he 
may feel gratified at the moment, yet his 
opinion of your principles will eventually be 
lowered, while his trust in your faithfulness 
will be lessened in the same degree. 

In speaking of the entireness, the depth, 
and the disinterestedness of woman’s love, I 
would not for a moment be supposed to class 
under the same head, that precocious ten- 
dency to fallin love, which some young ladies 
encourage under the idea of its being an 
amiable weakness. Never is the character 
of woman more despicable, than when she 
stoops to plead her weakness as a merit. 
Yet some complain that they are naturally so 
grateful, it is impossible for them to resist the 
influence of kindness; and thus they fall in 
love, perhaps with a worthless man—perhaps 
with two men at once; simply because they 
have been kindly treated, and their hearts 
are not capable of resisting kindness. Would 
that such puerile suppliants for the charity 
they ill deserve, could be made to understand 

' how many a correct and prudent woman 
would have gone inconceivably further than 
they, in gratitude and generous feeling, had 
not right principle been made the stay of her 


Love which arises out of mere weakness, 
is as easily fixed upon one object as another ; 
and consequently is at all times transferable : 
that which is governed by principle, how 
much has it to suffer, yet how nobly does it 
survive all trial ! 

I have said, that woman’s love, at least all 
which deserves that name, is almost univer- 
sally exalted and noble in its commence- 
ment; but that still it wants its highest attri- 
bute, until its faithfulness has been establish- 
ed by temptation and trial. Let no woman, 
therefore, boast of her constancy, until she 
has been put to the test. In speaking of 
faithfulness, 1 am far from supposing it to 
denote merely the tenacity of adhering to an 
engagement. It is easy to be true to an en- 
gagement, while false to the individual with 
whom it is contracted. My meaning refers 
to faithfulness of heart, and this has many 


conduct, and the arbiter of all her actions. 


trials in the common intercourse of society, | act of bearing it meekly and reverently, as 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


in the flattery and attentions of men, and in 
the fickleness of female fancy. 

To have loved faithfully, then, is to have 
loved with singleness of heart, and sameness 
of purpose, through all the temptations which 
society presents, and under all the assaults 
of vanity, both from within and without. It 
is so pleasant to be admired, and so soothing 


to be loved, that the grand tria! of female | 


constancy is, not to add one more conquest 
to her triumphs, where it is evidently in her 
power to do so; and, therefore, her only pro- 
tection is to restrain the first wandering 
thought which might even lead her fancy 
astray. The ideas which commonly float 
through the mind of woman, are so rapid, 
and so indistinctly defined, that when the 
door is opened to such thoughts, they pour 
in like a torrent. Then first will arise some 
new perception of deficiency in the object of 
her love, or some additional impression of 
his unkindness or neglect, with comparisons 
between him and other men, and regret that 
he has not some quality which they possess, 
sadness under a conviction of her future des- 
tiny, pining for sympathy under that sadness, 
and, lastly, the commencement of some other 
intimacy, which at first she has no idea of 
converting into love. 

Such is the manner in which, in thousands 
of instances, the faithfulness of woman’s 
love has been destroyed, and destroyed far 
more effectually than if assailed by an open, 
and, apparently, more formidable foe. And 
what a wreck has followed! for when wo- 
man loses her integrity, and her self-respect, 
she is indeed (pitiable and degraded. While 
her faithfulness remains unshaken, it is true 
she may, and probably will, have much to 
suffer; but let her portion in this life be what 
it may, she will walk through the world with 
a firm and upright step; for even when soli- 
tary, she is not degraded. It may be called 
a cold philosophy to speak of such consola- 
tion being available under the suffering which 
arises from unkindness and desertion, but 
who would not rather be the one to bear in- 
jury, than the one to inflict it; and the very 


a 


" 


SS A ES 2S ES SS Se a ae 


rn A A CC LA 
a 


ee 


a 


LOVE AND 


v 
from the hand of God, has a purifying and 


solemnizing effect upon the soul, which the 
faithless and the fickle never can experi- 
ence. 

As friendship is the basis of all true love, 
it is equally—nay, more important that the 
latter should be submitted to the same test 
in relation to its ultimate aim, which ought 
supremely to be, the moral and spiritual good 
of its object. Indeed, without this principle 
at heart, no love is worthy of the name ; be- 
cause, as its influence upon human nature is 
decidedly the most powerful of any, its re- 
sponsibilities are in the same proportion se- 
rious and imperative. What, then, shall we 
think of the woman who evinces a nervous 
timidity about the personal safety of her 
lover, without, any corresponding anxiety 
about the safety of his soul ? 


But there is another delusion equally fatal | 


with this, and still more frequently prevailing 
among well-meaning yeang woman; I mean, 
that of listeniz% to the addresses of a gay 
man, and' making it the condition of her mar- 
rying him, that he shall become religious. 
Some even undertake to convert men of this 
description, without professing any personal 
interest in the result; and surely, of all the 
mockeries by which religion is insulted in 
this world, these are among the greatest. 
They are such, however, as invariably bring 
their own punishment; and, therefore, a little 
observation upon the working of this falla- 
cious system upon others, will probably be of 
more service to the young, than any obser- 
vations I, can offer. I cannot, however re- 
frain from the remark, that religion being a 
matter of personal interest, ifa man will not 
submit himself to its influence for his own 
sake, it is not likely he will do so for the sake 
of another; and the probability is, that, while 
endeavoring to convert him, the woman, being 
the weaker party, wiil be drawn over to his 
views and principles; or if hers should be 
too firm for this, that he will act the hypocrite 
in order to deceive her, and thus add a new 
crime to the sum of guilt already contracted. 

With a gay man, therefore, a serious wo- 
man can have nothing to do, but to contem- 


COURTSHIP. 103 


plate his character as she would that of some 
being of a different order or species from her 
own. Even after such a man has undergone 
a moral and spiritual change, there will re- 
main something in his tone of mind and feel- 
ing, from which a delicate and sensitive wo- 
man will naturally and vnavoidably shrink. 
He will feel this himself, and while the hu- 
mility.and self-abasement which this convic- 
tion occasions, will constitute a strong claim 
upon her sympathy and tenderness, they will 
both be deeply sensible that, in his heart of 
hearts, there is a remembrance, a shadow, a 
stain, which a pure-minded woman must 
ever feel and sorrow for. 

“But how are we to know a man’s real 
character ?”’ is the common question of young 
women. Alas! there is much willing decep- 
tion on this point. Yet, | must confess, that 
men are seldom thoroughly known, except 
under their own roof, or among their own 
companions. With respect to their moral 
conduct, however, if they have alow standard 
of excellence with regard to the female sex 
in general, it isan almost infallible sign that 
their education, or their habits, have been 
such as to render them undesirable compan- 
ions in the most intimate and indissoluble of 
all connections. Good men are accustomed 
to regard women as equal with themselves 
in their moral and religious: character, and 
therefore they seldom speak of them with 
disrespect ; but bad men having no such 
scale of calculation, use a very different kind 
of phraseology, when women, as a class, are 
the subject of conversation. 

Again, the world is apt to speak of men as 
being good because they are merely moral. 
But it would be a safe rule for all Christian 
women to reflect, that such are the tempta- 
tions to man in his intercourse with the world, 
that nothing less than the safeguard of reli- 
gion can render his conduct uniformly moral. 

With regard to the social and domestic 
qualities of a lover, these must also be tried 
at home. If disrespectful to his mother, and 
inconsiderate or ungentle in his manners to 
his sisters, or even if accustomed to speak of 
them in a coarse, unfeeling, or indifferent 


ee SS nr a a DENS SRSA SL eT TS SST PT TS a 


a SS ED SEER SR RS SS RR A RR RR EECA AER EE, AA RARE Sg 


104 


manner, whatever may be his intellectual re- 
commendations, as a husband he ought not 
to be trusted. On the other hand, it may be 
set down as an almost certain rule, that the 
man who is respectful and affectionate to his 
mother and his sisters, will be so to his wife. 

Having thus described in general terms 
the manner in which women ought to love, 
the next inquiry is, under what circumstances 
this feeling may be properly indulged. ‘The 
first restriction to a woman of delicacy, of 
course, will be never to entertain this senti- 
ment towards: one by whom it has not been 
sought and solicited. Unfortunately, how- 
ever, there are but too many instances in 
which attentions, so pointed as not to be 
capable of being misunderstood, have wan- 
tonly been made the means of awakening 
something more than a preference ; while he 
who had thus obtained this meanest of all 
triumphs, could smile at the consequences, 
and exult in his own freedom from any direct 
committal. 

How the peace of mind of the young and 
the trusting is to be secured against such treat- 
ment, it is difficult to say; unless they would 
adopt the advice of the more experienced, 
and think less of the attentions of men in 
general, and more of their own immediate 
and practical duties, which, after all, are the 
best preservatives, not only against indolence, 
melancholy, and romance; but against the 
almost invariable accompaniment of these 
evils—a tendency to sentimental attachments. 
Tam aware that I incur the risk of being con- 
sidered among young ladies as too homely 
in my notions, even for an admonitress, when 
I so often recommend good old-fashioned 
household duties; yet, I believe them never- 
theless to be a wholesome medicine both to 
body and mind, and in no case more useful 
than in those of sentimentality. 

In the bestowment of the affections, few 
women are tempted to make choice of men 
of weak capacity. Still there is sometimes a 
plausible manner, a gentlemanly address, or 
a handsome exterior, which serves for a 
while to bewilder the judgment, so as to con- 
ceal from detection the emptiness within. It 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


a in etree A a I a INH Te RIT) eae es a ee ss 


is the constitutional want of womaii’s nature 
to have some superior being to look up to; 
and how shall a man of weak capacity sup- 
ply this want? He may possibly please for’ 
an hour, or a day, but it is a fearful thought 
to have to dwell with such a one for life. 

The most important inquiry, however, to 
be made in the commencement of an attach- 
ment, for it may be too late to make it after- 
wards, is, whether the object of it inspires 
with a greater love of all that is truly excel- 
lent—in short, whether his society and con- 
versation have a direct tendency to make re- 
ligion appear more lovely, and more desira- 
ble. If not, he can be no safe companion 
for the intimacy of married life; for you 
must have already discovered, that your 
own position as a Christian, requires sup- 
port rather. than opposition. It is the more 
important, therefore, that this inquiry should 
be most satisfactorily answered in an early 
stage of the attachment; because it is the 
peculiar nature of love to invest with ideal 
excellence the object of its choice, so that 
after it has once obtained possession of the 
heart, there ceases too generally to be a cor- 
rect perception of good and evil, where the 
interests of love are concerned. 

In addition to this tendency, it is deeply to 
be regretted, that so few opportunities are af- 
forded to women in the present state of’ so- 
ciety, of becoming acquainted with the natu- 
ral dispositions and general habits of those to 
whom they intrust their happiness, until the 
position of both is fixed, and fixed for life. 
The short acquaintance which takes place, 
under ordinary circumstances, between two 
individuals about to be thus united, for better 
for worse, until death do them part, is any 
thing but a mutual development of real char- | 
acter. The very name of courtship is a re- | 
pulsive one; because it implies merely a so- | 
licitude to obtain favor, but has no reference 
to deserving it. When a man is said to be 
paying his court to an individual of higher 
rank or authority, he is universally under- || 
stood to be using flattery and attention, if not 
artifice, to purchase what his merits alone 
would not be sufficient to command. 


ti uct 


— 


LOVE AND 


not say that a similar line of conduct is de- 
signedly pursued by the lover, because I be- 
lieve that in many cases he would be glad to 
have his character more clearly understood 
than it is. Yet, here we see, most especially, 
the evil consequences resulting from that 
system of intercourse, which prevails be- 
tween the two sexes in general society. By 
the time a young woman is old enough to 
enter into a serious engagement, she has 
generally become so accustomed to receive 
the flattery and the homage of men, that she 
would feel it an insult to be treated with per- 
fect honesty and candor; while, on the other 
hand, her lover redoubles his assiduity to 
convince her, that if not actually a goddess, 
she is at least the most charming of her sex. 
Need we be surprised if there should often 
be a fearful awaking from this state of delu- 
sion ? 

I must, however, in justice repeat, that the 
delusion is not all intentional on either part, 
for a successful suit naturally places a man 
in so agreeable a position, that his temper 
and disposition, at such times, appear to the 
best possible advantage; while on the other 
hand, it would be strange indeed, if a wo- 
man so courted, and apparently admired, 
could not maintain her sweetest deportment, 
aud wear her blandest smiles, through that 
short period which some unjustly call the 
happiest of her life, simply because it is the 
one in which she is the most flattered, and 
the most deceived. 

It is a very erroneous notion, entertained 
by some young persons, that to make early 
pretensions to womanhood, is an embellish- 
ment to their character, or a means of in- 
creasing their happiness. Nothing in reality 
can be more entirely a mistake. One of the 
greatest charms which a girl can possess, is 
that of being contented to be a girl, and noth- 
ing more. Her natural ease of manner, her 
simplicity of heart, her frankness, her guileless 
and confiding truth, are all opposed to the pre- 
mature assumption of womanhood. Even her 


| joyous playfulness, so admirably’ adapted to 


promote the health both of mind and body,— 


COURTSHIP. 105 


the mock dignity of an artificial and would- 
be woman? Believe me, the latter loses 
much of the innocent enjoyment of her early 
years, while she gains in nothing, except a 
greater necessity for care and caution. 

Were it possible to induce the daughters 
of England to view this subject in its true 
light, and to endeavor to prolong rather than 
curtail the season of their simplicity and 
buoyancy of heart; how much would be 
avoided of that absurd miscalculation about 
the desirableness of contracting matrimonial 
alliances, which plunges hundreds and thou- 
sands into the responsible situation of wives 
and mothers, before they have well learned 
to be rational women ! 

A cheerful, active, healthy, and sound- 
minded girl, is ever the first to glow with 
the genuine impulse of what is noble and 
generous in feeling, thought, and action ; and 
at the same time she is the last to be imposed 
upon by what is artificial, false, or merely 
superficial ; for there seems to be a power in 
unsophisticated nature, to repel as if by in- 
stinct the mean stratagems of art. The 
vain, the sentimental, would-be woman, sick- 
ly for want of natural exercise, and disap- 
pointed in her precocious attempts at dignity 
and distinction, is the last to yield herself to 
any genuine impulse; because she must in- 
quire whether it is lady-like and becoming ; 
but, alas for her peace of mind! she is the 
first to listen to the voice of flattery, and to 
sink into all the absurdities of an early, a 
misplaced, or an imaginary attachment. 

It is not indeed in the nature of things, that 
a young girl should know how to bestow her 
affections aright. She has not had experi- 
ence enough in the ways of the world, or 
penetrated sufficiently through the smiling 
surface of society, to know that some who are 
the most attractive in their address and man- 
ners, are the least calculated for fireside com- 
panions. They know, if they would but be- 
lieve what their more experienced relatives 
tell them, that the happiness of marriage must 
depend upon suitability of character; yet, 
even of this they are incompetent to judge, » 


oh! why does she hasten to lay all this aside for | and consequently they are betrayed into mis- 


a a a ing ee a i a 


| 106 


takes sometimes the most fatal to their true 
interests, both here and hereafter. 

How much wiser then is the part of her, 
who puts off these considerations altogether, 
until a period of greater maturity of judgment, 
when much that once looked dazzling and 
attractive shall have lost its false splendor; 
and when many qualifications of heart and 
mind, to which she once attached but little 
| value, shall have obtained their due share of 
‘importance in her calculations! Her heart 
will then be less subject to the dictates of ca- 
-pricious fancy; and, looking at human life, 
and society, and mankind as they really are ; 
looking at herself, too, with a clearer vision, 
and a more decided estimate of truth, she will 
be able to form a correct opinion on that 
point of paramount importance—suitability 
of character and habits. 

Influenced by a just regard to this consid- 
eration, a sensible woman will easily see that 
| the man of her choice must be as much as 
possible in her own sphere of life. Deficient 
in education, he would be a rude and coarse 
companion for a refined woman; and with 
much higher attainments than her own, he 
would be liable to regard her with disrespect, 
if not with contempt. 

By a fatal misapprehension of what con- 
stitutes real happiness, it is often spoken of 
as a good and great thing, when a woman 
raises herself to a higher sphere of society by 


story of their after lives, it would often be a 
history of humiliation and sorrow, for which 
no external advantages had been able to com- 
pensate. There are, however, admirable in- 
stances of women, thus exalted, who have 
maintained their own dignity, and the respect 
of all their connections ; so much more impor- 
tant is moral worth than intellectual cultiva- 
tion, toa woman. In these cases, however, 
the chief merit of the wife has been, that she 
never sought her elevation. 

Having chosen your lover for his suitabili- 
ty, it is of the utmost consequence, that you 
should guard against that natural propensity 
of the youthful mind, to invest him with ev- 
ery ideal excellence. Endeavor to be satis- 


marriage. Could such individuals tell the | Let sufficient of your love be told, to prevent 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


fied with him as he is, rather than imagine him 
what he never can be. It will save you a 
world of disappointment in after life. Nor, 
indeed, does this extravagant investiture of 
the fancy belong, as is sometimes supposed, 
to that meek, and true, and abiding attach- 
ment which it is woman’s highest virtue and 
noblest distinction to feel. I strongly suspect 
it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a 
young woman to believe her lover perfect ; 
because it enhances her triumph to be the || — 
choice of such a man. The part of a true-| |} © 
hearted woman, is to be satisfied with her lov-. 
er, such as he is, and to consider him, with all 
his faults, as sufficiently exalted, and suffi- , 
ciently perfect for her. No after-develop-. 
ment of character can shake the faith of such) 
a woman, no ridicule or exposure can weak- 
en her tenderness for a single moment ; while, 
on the other hand, she who has blindly be- 
lieved her lover to be without a fault, must || 
ever be in danger of awaking to the convic- 
tion that her love exists no longer. \ 

Though truth should be engraven upon ev- 
ery thought, and word, and act, which occurs |} 
in your intercourse with the man of your | 
choice, there is implanted in the nature of wo-| 
man, a'shrinking delicacy, which ought ever. 
to prompt her to keep back some of her affec-) 
tion for the time when she becomes a wife. 
No woman ever gained, but many, very ma-_ 
ny; have been losers, by displaying all at first. | 


suspicion, or distrust; -and the self-compla- | 
cency of man will be sure to supply the rest. 
Suffer it not, then, to be unfolded to its full | 
extent. In the trials of married life, you wil 

have ample need for an additional supply: 
You will want it for sickness, for sorrow, for 
all the different exigences of real experience ; 
but, above all, you will want it to re-awaken 
the tenderness of your husband, when world- 
ly cares and pecuniary disappointments have | 
too much absorbed his better feelings; and 
what surprise so agreeable to him, as to dis- 

cover, in his further progress through the wil- 

derness of life; so sweet, so deep a fountain, 

as woman’s perfect love? 

This prudent and desirable restraint of fe- 


SE eS es 


H 


-er, it is a bad omen for his happiness. 


LOVE AND 


male delicacy during the period of courtship, 
will prevent those dangerous demands _ be- 
ing made upon mere affection to supply inter- 
est for an occasion, which after all, and par- 
ticularly to men of business, is apt to be rath- 
er a tedious one. Let your amusements, 
then, even during that period, be ofan intellec- 
tual nature, that your lover may never even 
for a single moment have occasion to feel that 
your society grows vapid, or palls upon his 
taste. Itis better a thousand times, that read- 
ing or conversation, or the company of others, 


should be forced upon him, so that he should 


regret having had so little of yours, than that 
the idea should once glance across his mind, 
that he had had too much, or that the time 
spent with you had not passed so pleasantly 
as he had expected. 

It is a fact too little taken into account by 
young women, that until actually married, 
their relative and home duties are the same 
after an engagement has been contracted, as 
before. When a daughter begins to neglect 
a father or a brother, for the sake of her lov- 
Her 
attentions in this case are dictated by impulse, 
not duty ; and the same misapprehension of 
what is just, and right, will in future be equal- 
ly likely to divert them again from their prop- 
er object. Itis good even to let your lover 
see, that such is your estimate of duty, that 
you can afford even to lose his society fora 
few minutes, rather than neglect.the claims 
of your family. 

I have now imagined a young woman 
brought into the most serious position she 
has yet occupied; and if her mind is rightly 
influenced, she will feel it to be one of deep 
and solemn consideration. 
lapse of her previous existence, she has lived 


for herself alone, now is the time when ‘her | 


| regrets are about to begin; if, as Ihave so 


earnestly recommended, she has studious- 
ly cultivated habits of duty, and thoughts of 
affectionate and grateful regard towards her 
home-connections, now is the time when she 
will fully enter upon the advantages of hay- 
ing regulated her conduct by.the law.of love. 
Already she will have begun.to. contemplate 


If, during the 


COURTSHIP. 


the character of manin a newlight. Admit- 
ted to his confidence, she will find him at the 
same time more admirable, and more requir- 
ing as regards herself, than she fognod him in 
society ; and while her esteem increases with 
the development of his real merits, she will 
feel her affection equal to every demand, for 
she will be rich in that abundance which 
the heart alone can supply, whose warmest 
emotions have been called forth and cherish- 
ed in the genialand healthy atmosphere of 
domestic life. | 

One word, before ‘this chapter closes, to 
those who have arrived at years of woman-. 
hood without having known what it was to. 
engage the attentions of a lover; and of | 
such I must observe, that by some unac- 
countable law of nature, they often appear. 
to be the most admirable of their sex. In- | 
deed, while a sparkling countenance, an easy 
manner, aud, to say ‘the least of it, a wil- 
lingness to be admired, attract a crowd of 
lovers—it not unfrequently happens, that re- 
tiring merit, and unostentatious taient, scarce- 
Jy secure the homage of one. And yet, on 
looking around upon society, one sees so 
many of the vain, the illiterate, and the utter- 
ly useless, chosen and solicited as wives, 
that we are almost tempted to consider those 
who are not thus favored, as in ‘reality the 
most honorably distinguished among their 
Sex. 

Still, I imagine there:are few, if any, who 
never have had a suitable or unsuitable offer 


at some time in their lives; and wise indeed 
-by comparison, are those who, rather than 
accept the latter, are content to enjoy the 


pleasures, and endure the sorrows of life, | 
alone. Compare their lot for an instant with | 
that of women who have married from ‘un- | 
worthy motives. How incomparably more | 
dignified, more happy, and more desirable in» 
every ‘way, does:itappear! ‘It is true there 
are times in their experience when they will | 
have to bear what woman bears so hardly—_ 
the consciousness of being alone ; but they 
escape.an evil far more insupportable—that | 
of being'a slighted or an unloved wife. | 
If my remarks throughout this work have 


—— 


for the married state, it has not been from 


appeared to refer directly to a moral training 


any want of interest in those, of whom I 
purpose t@ speak more fully hereafter, who 
never enter upon this condition, but simply 
because I believe the moral training which 
prepares a woman for one sphere of duty, is 
equally productive of benefit if she fills an- 
other; and I rest this belief upon my con- 
viction, that all the loveliest and most esti- 
mable propensities of woman’s nature, were 


bestowed upon her for early and continued 


exercise in a strictly relative capacity ; and 


that, whether married or single, she will, 


equally find the law of Christian love the 
only certain rule by which to regulate her 
conduct, so as to render her either happy 
herself, or the promoter of happiness in oth- 


ers. » 
8, 
en eee 
CHAPTER XI. 
SELFISHNESS, VANITY, ARTIFICE, AND INTEG- 
RITY. 


It is my intention to occupy the present 
ckapter with further observations upon the 
three great enemies to woman’s advance- 
ment in moral excellence—selfishness, vani- 
ty, and artifice, as opposed to her disinter- 
estedness, simplicity of heart, and integrity. 

It seems to be a strange anomaly in her 
nature, that in connection with all which wo- 
man is capable of doing and suffering for the 
good of others, there should lurk about her 
heart a peculiar kind of selfishness, which 
the strong discipline of personal trial, and 
often of severe affliction, is frequently re- 
quired to subdue. It is justly remarked of 
woman, that in cases of afflictive dispensa- 
tion, the qualities of her heart and mind 
generally appear to the greatest advantage, 
and none of them more so, than her devoted- 
ness; by which I would be understood to 
mean, the power she sometimes evinces of 
throwing every consideration of self into the 
balance as nothing, when weighed against 
the interest or the happiness of those she 


eae en enero eens dei nannies ansesatesiaas hence IRE 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


loves. 
trying vicissitudes of life by this spirit of de- 
votedness, her capabilitiessof acting and en- 
during have sometimes appeared almost su- 
perhuman ; so much so, that when we con- 
template woman in this point of view, we al- 
most fail to recognise as a being of the same 
species, the idle flutterer of the ball-room, or 
the listless murmurer beside the parental 
hearth. | 

It is a fearful thing to await the coming of 
“the dark days of sorrow,” before the evil 
spirit of selfishness shall be exorcised. Let 
us inquire, then, what aspect this enemy as- 
sumes in early life, in order that it may be 
the more easily detected, and expelled from 
its favorite citadel, the human heart. 

Selfishness has other features besides 
greediness. It is a very mistaken notion, 
that because persons give freely, they cannot 
be selfish ; for there is a luxury in giving, 
which sentimental epicures will sometimes 
not deny themselves, even for the sake of 
principle. Thus, some young people are 
liberal in making presents with their parents’ 
hard-earned money, and even when the 
same money would be more properly and 
more justly applied in paying their lawful 
debts. Such is the mere generosity of im- 
pulse, which deserves no better name than 
self-gratification. Indeed, all acting from 
mere impulse may be classed under the head 
of selfishness ; because it has no object be- 
yond the relief or satisfaction of the actor, 
without reference to its influence or operation 
upon others. | 

The aspect which female selfishness most 
frequently assumes in early life, may best be 
described as a kind of absorption in self, or a 
habit of making self at once the centre and 
limit of every consideration, which habit is 
far from being incompatible with liberality 
in giving. Every thing, in this case, which 
forms the subject of conversation or thought, 
has reference to self; and separate from self, 
there are few which possess the slightest in- 
terest. 

“[ wish it was always winter,” said a 


es — 


Supported under some of the most | 


young lady very coolly to me, “the glare of 


—— 


a i, 


LOVE AND COURTSHIP. 


the sunshine is so painful to my sight”’ I 
reminded her of the poor of our own spe- 
cies, and the animals of the creation in gen- 
eral—but she persisted in wishing it was al- 
ways winter; and yet this young lady was 
generous in giving, but, like too many others, 
she was accustomed to look upon the whole 
universe only as it bore some relation or 
reference to herself. 

Nor does it follow either that such persons 
should entertain for themselves an inordinate 
admiration. ‘Tio hear them talk, one would 
sometimes be led to suppose that self was 
the very being with whom, of all others, they 
were most dissatisfied: yet, all the while, 
they are too busy finding fault with self, to 
have time to approve or admire what they. 
might otherwise behold in others. 

How different is this state of mind and 
feeling from that which acknowledges the 
rule of Christian love! In accordance with 
this rule, it is highly important to begin early 
to thiuk much of others, and to think of them 
kindly. We are all, when young, and es- 
pecially those who believe themselves gifted 
with more than ordinary talent, tempted to 
think it both amusing and clever to find out 


| the faults of others; and among the busy, 


the meddling, and the maliciously disposed, 


|| this habit does often unquestionably afford a 


more than lawful degree of amusement; 
while to her by whom it is indulged, it inva- 


| riably proves in the end most destructive to 
| genuine cheerfulness, good-humor, and peace 
| of mind; because its own nature being of- 
| fensive, it raisés up against her a host of 
| enemies, by whom all that is wrong in her 
| character is magnified, and all that is good is 
| evil spoken of. At the same time she will 
: also find, that this-seeming cleverness is 
: also shared with the most vulgar-minded 
| persons of both sexes, and of every grade in 
|| society, because none are so low as to be in- 
|| capable of seeing the faults of their neigh- 


bors. 
Could such young satirists be convinced 


| how much real enjoyment they sacrifice for 


the sake of awakening a momentary interest 
in their conversation, they would surely pause 


00 | 


before the habit should have become so far 


confirmed as to have repelled their nearest 
friends, and set them apart from all the social 
sympathies and sweet charities of life ; for 
such is inevitably the consequence of perse- 
vering indulgence in this habit, but especially | 
with such as possess no real talent for amus- 
ing satire, and who, in their futile attempts to 
attain the unenviable distinction of being sa- 
tirical, ascend no further than to acquire a 
habit of spéaking spitefully. It is almost 
needless to say, that such women are seldom 
loved, and-seldom sought, in cases where a 
sympathizing friend or kind assistant is re- 
quired. Wheno such individuals are over- 
taken by affliction, they then feel how differ- 
ent a thing it is to have wounded and re- 
pelled, from what it is to have soothed and 
conciliated. Happy for them if they begin to ; 
feel this before it is too late! 

But if, in connection with their affliction, 
the minds of such individuals should become 
subject to impressions of a religious nature,. 
and, as is natural in such cases, they should || 
seek the society of religious people, how |! 
deeply will they then deplore that their un- 
fortunate habit of thinking and speaking evil 
of others should have opened their eyes to a 
thousand little discrepancies of character, 
and fancied absurdities of conduct, in those | 
it has become most important to their happi- 
ness that they should confide in! How do 
the ridiculous, the inconsistent, the vulgar, 
then start up to view, with a prominence 
that throws every other quality into shade; 
so that even while they listen to a religious 
discourse, their thoughts are entirely diverted 
by some peculiarity in the manner in which 
it is delivered. 

And all this chain of sad consequences 
may arise out of the simple habit of trying to 
be striking and amusing in company, so that 
self may, by that means, be made an object 
of greater importance. In comparison with 
such behavior, how beautiful is that of the 
simple-hearted young woman, who can be so 
absorbed in the conversation of others, as to 
forget that she has taken no part in it her- 
self; but more especially admirable is the 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


conduct of her, who !ooks only, or chiefly, 
for what is to be loved and commended in 
others ; and who, though not insensible to 
the darker side of human nature, draws over 
it the veil of charity, because she considers 
all her fellow-creatures as heirs to the same 
sufferings and infirmities which she endures, 
yet as children of the same heavenly Father, 
and subject with herself to the same dispen- 
sation of mercy and forgiveness. 

The habit of thinking perpetually of self is 
always accompanied by its just and necessa- 
ry punishment—a more than ordinary share 


of wounded feeling. The reason is a very 


obvious one; that persons whose thoughts | 


are usually thus engaged, are apt to suppose 
themselves the subject of general observation, 
and scarcely can a whisper be heard in the 
same room, but they immediately settle it in 
their own minds that they are the subject of 
injurious remark. ‘They are also keenly alive 
to every slight; such as not being known or 
noticed when they are met, not being invited 
to visit their friends, and a thousand other 
acts of omission, which an unselfish disposi- 
tion would kindly attribute to some other 
cause than intentional disrespect. 

It is the result of selfishness, too, when we 
are sO unreasonable as to expect that every- 
body should love us; or when we are piqued 
and irritated when convinced that some, up- 
on whom we have but little claim, do not. 
Surely, so unfair a demand upon the good- 
will of society might be cured by asking, Do 
we love everybody, do justice to everybody, 
and deserve to be loved by everybody? For, 
until this is the case, what title have we to 
universal affection? It might also tend, in 
some degree, to equalize the balance of re- 
quirement in favor of self, if we would recol- 
lect that the faults we most dislike in others, 
may, all the while, be less offensive to us than 
ours to them; and that not only for all the 
actual faults, but even for the objectionable 
peculiarities, which society puts up with in 

| US, We OWE a repayment which can only be 
made in kindness and forbearance to others. 

In the manners and appearance of persons 
accustomed to dwell much upon the slights 


a OO . 
——[—[_[—[_[—[—[—[][][_[—[— — zz] E—— 


as well as to her moral and spiritual advance- 


| Women who are vain of their sensibility, and 


they are subject to, and the mjuries they re- 
ceive from others, there is a restless uneasi- 
ness, and a tendency to groundless suspicion, 
as much at variance with peace of mind, as 
with that charity which “ thinketh no evil.” 
Compare with such a state of mind and feel- 
ing the sunny calm which lives, even in the 
countenance of her, whose soul is at peace 
with all the human race; who finds in all, 
even the most humble, something either to 
admire, or love; and who esteems whatever 
kindness she receives from others, as more 
than her own merits would have entitled her 
to expect; and we see at once the advantage 
she enjoys over those with whom self is the 
subject of paramount interest. 

Another fatal enemy to woman’s peace, 


ment, is her tendency to a peculiar kind of 
petty artifice, as directly opposed, in its na- 
ture, to simplicity of heart, as to integrity. 
Artifice may possibly be considered too se- 
vere a name for what is scarcely more than a 
species of acting; or, perhaps, it may, with 
still greater propriety, be called, practising 
upon others, for the purpose of gratifying 
selfishness, and feeding vanity. 

Affectation is the first symptom of this ten- 
dency. ‘There are many kinds of affectation, 
differing in their moral nature according to 
the seriousness and importance of what is 
affected. Affectation of ignorance is, perhaps, 
the most absurd of them all. Yet how often 
do we find a young pretender to gentility af- 
fecting not to know any thing which is vul- 
gar or mean; and, among this class, taking 
especial pains to place many things- with 
which every rational being ought to be ac- 
quainted ! 

The affectation of sensibility is, Reich 
the most common of all; because that pecu- 
liar faculty of the female mind, bestowed for 
the purpose of rendering her more efficient 
as a minister of comfort and consolation, is 
looked upon rather as a matter of taste, than 
as a principle ; just as if fine feelings were 
only given to women to look pretty with. 


wish to have it indulged, generally choose 


rR 


weak and flattering friends, to whom they 
constantly complain of what they suffer from 
excess of feeling. 

It is, indeed, a lamentable fact, and most 
probably the consequence of some misman- 
agement in early youth, that the sensitive- 
ness of some women is such as to render 
them altogether useless, and sometimes 
worse than useless, in any case of suffering 
oralarm. If such individuals sincerely regret 
this disqualification, they are truly deserving 
of our pity ; but if they make a parade of it, 
no language can be strong enough for their 
condemnation. 

Allusion has already been made to that 
affectation of modesty which consists in 
simpering and blushing about what a truly 
delicate mind would neither have perceived 
nor understood, nor would have been in the 
slightest degree amused by if it had. 

Affectation of humility is often betrayed by 
a proneness in persons to accuse themselves 
of some darling fault ; while they repel with 
indignation the suspicion that they possess 
any other. 

That kind of affectation which relates es- 
pecially to manner, consists chiefly in assum- 
ing a particular expression of countenance, 
or mode of behavior, which is not supported 
by a corresponding state of feeling. Thus 
an affectation of attention, when the thoughts 
are wandering, instead of that quiet and fixed 
look which indicates real interest, produces 
a certain degree of uneasiness of countenance 
arising out of the restraint imposed upon na- 
ture, which effectually destroys the power of 
beauty ; while those futile attempts at being 
brilliant, which consist only in flashes of the 
eye, smiles that have neither appropriateness 
nor meaning, and an expression of face 
changing suddenly from grave to gay—from 
despair to rapture—are sufficient indications 
of a state of mind almost too degraded and 
deplorable for ridicule. 

Affectation of manner, however, is not un- 
frequently the result of excessive timidity ; 
and then indeed it claims our tenderest com- 
passion, and our kindest sympathy. I have 
known little girls, when harshly treated in 


ee se 
SELFISHNESS, VANITY, ARTIFICE, AND INTEGRITY. 


childhood, acquire a constrained and affected 
manner, from the constant state of unnatural 
apprehension in which they lived. This kind 
of affectation is apt to become in after years 
a fixed habit, and has subjected many a well- 
meaning person to unmerited ridicule, and 
sometimes to contempt. Indeed, affectation 
of manner ought always to be guarded 
against, because of the unfavorable impres-. 
sion it is calculated to make upon others; 
and especially upon those who know of no 
higher qualities in connection with this pe- 
culiarity of manner, and upon whom it is 
consequently the only impression ever made, 
and the only standard by which the unfortu- 
nate subject of affectation is judged of for 
life. How much of the influence of good 
example, and the effect of benevolent effort, 
is frustrated by this seemingly insignificant 
cause, may be judged of by the familiar con- 
versation which takes place in society, and 
particularly among the young, when they 
discuss the merits or demerits of persons 
from whose influence or authority they would 
gladly discover a plea for escaping. 

Besides the timidity which belongs to con- 
stitutional fear, and which so frequently pro- 
duces affectation of manner, there is a timid- 
ity of a widely different kind, about which 
many serious mistakes are made. J mean 
the timidity of the vain. Excessive vanity, 
excites a nervous trembling apprehension in 
the young candidate for public favor, which 
is often most erroneously supposed to arise 
from a low estimate of self. Nor is it impos- 
sible that it should arise from this cause, and 
be the consequence of vanity still; for, if I 
may use the expression, there is a vanity 
above par, and another vanity below it— | 
there 1s a vanity which, looks eagerly for 
homage, believing it to be a right; there is 
another which scarcely ventures into the field 
of competition, convinced of its inadequacy 
to succeed, but which nevertheless, retires 
with a feeling of sullenness and depression, 
not much allied to genuine humility. It is 
that state of vacillation between the excessive 
pleasure which admiration would afford if 
obtained, and the excessive pain which any 


| thing approaching to ridicule or contempt 
would occasion, that often imparts to the 
| manners of the young, a blushing nervous 
kind of hesitation and backwardness, mis- 
called timidity. The timidity of modest feel- 
ing escapes from notice, and is happy; that 
of vanity escapes, and is piqued and miser- 
| able. She who suffers from the timidity of 
| vanity, shrinks from society higher than her- 
| self, not so much from fear, as from jealousy 
| of being outshone. The simple-hearted wo- 
| man, desirous of improvement, esteems it a 
| privilege to go into the company of her supe- 
| iors, for the sake of what she may. learn 
| from those who are better informed, or more 
estimable, than herself. | 

In contemplating the nature and effects of 
artifice, or rather that system of practising 
upon others which I have endeavored to de- 
scribe, and in reflecting upon the state of 
mind which this species of practising indi- 
cates, we arrive at a more clear and decided 
idea of integrity, as directly opposed to this 
system, than we can by any other process of 
thought. There is in fact no means of giving 
a positive definition of integrity, so as to 
make it fully understood. We may call ita 
straightforward and upright mode of con- 
duct ; but it will still remain, as before, to be 
considered by young ladies a sort of thing 
which belongs to servants and trades-people, 
but not to them. 

It is a matter of surprise to some, and 
ought to be a subject of universal regret, that 
in our public seminaries for the training of 
youth, integrity should occupy so small a 
share of attention. Even in our popular 
works on education, it holds no very import- 
ant place; and yet I am inclined to think, 
that a want of strict integrity is the greatest 
of all wants to a social, moral, and account- 
able being. In this opinion, I doubt not but 
many of my readers will cordially agree, be- 
cause all are more or less inclined to restrict 
the meaning of integrity, to a conscientious 
abstaining from fraudulent practices. Thus, 
when a man has never been known to cheat 
in his business, it is said of him, that his in- 


tegrity is unimpeachable; and a woman is 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


a oe 


dignified with the same character, when she 
is strict in keeping her accounts, and dis- 
charging her pecuniary debts. So far, both 
are entitled to our respect; but there are in- 
numerable modes in which integrity operates 
upon character and conduct, besides what 
relate to the management of pecuniary af- 
fairs. 

Simplicity of heart is perhaps more gener- 
ally understood and admired than integrity, 
if we may judge by the frequent and eloquent 
manner in which it is expatiated upon by 
those who describe the attractions of youth. 
Simplicity of heart is unquestionably a great 
charm in woman; yet I cannot think it su- 
perior to integrity, because it consists more 
in ignorance of evil, and consequently of 
temptation, than in principle, which would 
withstand both. It consists chiefly in that 
unruffled serenity of soul, which suspects no 
lurking mischief beneath the fair surface of 


things in general—which trusts, and confides,. 


and is happy in this confidence; because it 
has never been deceived, nor has learned the 
fatal mystery of deceiving others. It is like 
the dew on the untrodden grass, the bloom 
of the flower, the down on the butterfly’s 
wing, the purity of newly-fallen snow, before 
even a breath of wind has swept over it. 
Alas ! what has it to do in this world of ours, 
where so many rude feet tread, and where 
so many rough winds blow? Consequently 
we find but little true simplicity of heart, ex- 
cept in early youth; or connected with a 
dullness of perception as to the nature and 
condition of the human race; or in situations 
where a very limited knowledge of the world 
is admitted. 

But integrity we may find in every circum- 
stance of life, because integrity is founded on 
principle ; and consequently while not a stran- 
ger to temptation, its nature is to withstand 
it. Integrity is shown in a straightforward 
and upright line of conduct, on trifling, as well 
as on great occasions; in private, as well as in 
public; beneath the eye of God alone, as well 
as before the observation of men. It is a shield 
of protection under which no man can make 
us afraid ; because when actuated in all things 


SELFISHNESS, VANITY, ARTIFICE, AND INTEGRITY. 


by the principle of integrity, no unexpected 
event can bring to light what we are afraid or 
ashamed to have known. ‘The woman who 
walks through the world with unstained integ- 
rity, is always safe. No fear then of whispering 
. tongues; or of those confidential revealings 
of friendly secrets, by which the creature of 
artifice is ever kept in a state of dread ; no 
fear then of a comparing of evidence by dif- 
ferent parties; of the treachery of private 
agents ; of the mal-occurrence of contingent 
events ; above all, of that half-implied sus- 
picion which can with difficulty be warded off, 
except by an entire falsehood. The woman 
of integrity fears none of these. Her course 
is clear as that of the sun in the heavens, and 
the light she sheds around her in society, is 
scarcely less genial and pure. 

Let us ask then, how this integrity may be 
preserved, or rather—for I fear that will be 
more to the purpose—how it is most fre- 
quently, and most fatally destroyed. 

There is reason to fear, that even home- 
education is defective enough on this point ; 
but if every one who has been educated at a 
public school, would tell one half of the many 
arts of subterfuge, trickery, and evasion, 
which she learned to practise there; and if 
all who are advanced in life would also trace 
out the consequences upon their subsequent 
conduct, of having learned in early life these 
lessons in the school of deception, I believe 
an amount of moral culpability, and of offen- 
siveness in the sight of God, would be unfold- 
ed, which some of our early instructors would 
shudder to contemplate. On looking into the 
dark past, they would then see how, while 
they were so diligently and patiently—yes, 
and meritoriously too, teaching us the rules 
of grammar, arithmetic, and geography; ex- 
pending their daily strength, and often their 
midnight thought, in devising and carrying 
out improved schemes for making us learn 
more languages, and remember more words; 
we had been almost equally busy in devising 
schemes to promote our own interest, to es- 
tablish ourselves in the favor of our instruct- 
ors, or to escape their too frequently well- 
merited displeasure. 


113 


And women from their very infancy are apt 
at all this; because to the timid, and affection- 
ate little girl, it is so sad a thing to fall into 
disgrace—so pleasant a thing to be approved, 
and loved. Her young and tender spirit sinks 
like a broken flower, when she falls under 
condemnation; but springs up exulting like 
the lark, when commended by the lips she 
loves. : 

What, then, shall we say, when it is this 
very sensitiveness and tenderness of her na- 
ture, which so often, in the first instance, be- 
trays her into ingenious, indirect, and too 
frequently unlawful means, for warding off 
blame, or obtaining praise. ‘There is but one 
thing we can say—ihat in common kindness, 


in Christian charity, her education should be | 


studiously rendered such as to strengthen her 
under this weakness, not to involve her more 
deeply in its worst consequences—the loss of 
her integrity. 

Few persons are aware, until they have 
entered into a full and candid examination 
of this subject, how very minute, and appa- 
rently insignificant, are those beginnings, from 
whence flow some of the deepest channels of 
deception. Falsehood makes a serious begin- 
ning at school, when the master helps out a 
drawing, and the pupil obtains the praise, as 
if the whole work was her own. The master 
has most probably added only a few effective 
touches, so extremely small as not to be de- 


tected by an unpractised eye; and while the | 


proud and triumphant mother exhibits the 
drawing to her flattering friends, it would be 
difficult indeed for the little girl to say it was 
not her own doing, because all the patience, 


all the labor, and a great deal of the merit, | 


were unquestionably hers. Yet, to let it pass 


with these unqualified commendations be- | 


stowed upon her as the author, is a species 
of lying to God. Her young heart knows it 
to be so, and she feels either humbled, or con- 
firmed in the deception. Happy, thrice hap- 
py; if it be the former ! 

Nor is home-education by any means ex- 
empt from its temptations to falsehood. There 
are many little deceptions practised upon un- 
suspecting mothers and absent fathers, which 


= a 


114 


I stain the page of youthful experience, and 
lead to further and more skilful practice. in 
the school of deception. ‘There are stolen 

«sweets, whose bitter fruit has been deliberate 
falsehood ; excuses made, and perhaps wholly 
believed, which were perhaps only half true ; 
and sly thefts committed. upon household 

| property, to serve a selfish end; all which 
have had a degrading effect upon the charac- 
ter, and which in their worst consequences 
have led to one falsehood made use of to con- 
ceal another, and a third ora fourth to cover 
both. 

But if childhood is beset with these tempta- 
tions, how much has woman to guard against, 
when she first mixes with society, and enters 
the disputed ground, where, to be most agree- 
able, constitutes the strongest title to posses- 
sion! She is then tempted to falsehood, not 
in her words only, but in her looks ; for there 
is a degree of integrity in looks, as well as in 
expressions; and I am not quite sure that 
the woman who can look a falsehood, is not 
a worse deceiver than she who only tells one. 
Allsweetness of look and manner, assumed 
for the purpose of gaining a point, or answer- 
ing a particular end, comes under this de- 
scription of artifice. Many persons who 
cannot conscientiously assent to what is said, 
assume a look of sympathy or approval, 
which sufficiently answers the purpose of 
deception, and at the same time escapes all 
risk of discovery as such. ‘T’hus, an implied 
assent by a smile and a nod, to what we do not 
believe, often spares us the trouble and pain 
of exposing our real sentiments, where they 
are unpopular, or would be likely to meet 
with inconvenient opposition. 

Still I should be sorry to set down all per- 
‘sons who smile, and nod, and appear to as- 
sent to two different sides of a question, as 
intentional deceivers ; because I believe that 
much of this sort of double-dealing arises out 
of the habit so many women indulge, of never 
making up their minds decidedly on any point 
of general interest, or viewing any subject in 
a distinct and determinate manner; so that 
they may almost be said really to think for the 
time in two different ways: at any rate, during 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


the time they listen to each speaker separately, 
they are sufficiently convinced for them. 

Thus it becomes the first act of integrity to. |} 
endeavor to see, hear, and. believe the truth,. 
and then to speak it. A grateful woman, re- 
gardless of this rule, speaks of all persons as 
good, to whom she is indebted, or who have 
in any way served her purposes. Another, 
and a far more serious instance of the same 
kind of practice, consists in pretending not to 
see, or not to understand vice, where it is not 
convenient to believe in its existence; and 
this is often done by the same persons, who 
are quick to detect and expose it where such 
exposure is suited to their purpose. | 

And thus women in general become ha- 
bituated to an indefinite way of thinking, and 
a careless mode of speech, both which may 
be serviceable to the mean-spirited, by pre- 
venting the detection of error in sentiment, 
or unsoundness of principle; though I be- 
lieve neither of them were ever yet found 
available in assisting the cause of truth or 
righteousness. 

Again, in the act.of doing good, there is a 
manner of speaking of what we have done, 
which, though not directly false, is certainly 
at variance with strict integrity. I mean 
when young ladies talk especially about heir 
schools, éhetr poor women, and their old men ; 
as if their individual charities were most be- 
nevolent in their operation, and unbounded 
in their extent ; when perhaps they have but 
recently begun to be exercised in these par- 
ticular channels. This is speaking the truth 
in such a manner, as to produce a false im- 
pression; and the consequence not unfre- 
quently is, when really zealous and. devoted 
people hear the speaker give this account of 
her good deeds, and when they take up the. |} 
subject, and address. her upon it; according 
to the impression her words have produced ; 
that, rather than descend from the false posi- 
tion she has assumed, and. lower. herself in 
the opinion of those with whom she. wishes to 
stand well, she goes on.to practise further arti- 
fice, or possibly plunges into, actual falsehood. 

And it ought always to be, borne in mind, 


that these little casual, but sometimes start- 


SELFISHNESS, ARTIFICE, VANITY, AND INTEGRITY. 


| ling turns in common conversation, produce 
/more actual untruths than the most trying 
circumstances in life, where we have incom- 
parably more at stake. If we were all to 
take account each night of the untruths we 
'had told in the course of the day, from an 
exaggerated description designed to make a 
story more amusing, down to the, frequent 
case of receiving credit for an original re- 
mark, which we knew was not our own, I 
imagine few persons would find themselves 
altogether clear of haying done violence to 
the pure spirit of truth. And if we add, 
also, to this list of falsehoods, all those un- 


|| fair or garbled statements, which may tend to 


throw a brighter coloring over some cause 
we wish to advocate, or cast another into 
shade, I believe we should find that we had 
indeed abundant need to pray for the re- 
newed assistance of the Holy Spirit, to touch 
and guard our lips, so that they should utter 
no nore guile. 

Besides these instances of the want of in- 
tegrity, in which our own consciences alone are 
concerned, there are others which demand a 
stricter attention to the claims of justice, as 
they relate to our friends, and to society at 
large. Under which head, I would notice 
the duty of doing justice to those we do not 
love, and especially to those who have in- 
jured us. Instead of which, how frequently 
do we find that young women begin to tell 
all the bad qualities of their friends, as soon 


often do we find, too, that such disagree- 
ments are related with conscious unfairness, 
their own evil being kept out of sight, as well 
as their friend’s good, where there has been 
a mixture of both ! 

There is a common practice too, when our 
own conduct is in any way called in ques- 
tion, and our friends kindly assign a plausible 
reason for what we have done, to let that 
pass as the real one, though we know, with- 
in our hearts, it is not so; or. to let persons 
make a favorable guess respecting us, with- 
out contradicting it, though we know their 
conclusions, in consequence of our silence, or 


as they have quarrelled with them! How. 


Sa 


115 hy 


Now, all these things, how insignificant 
soever they may appear to man, are import- 
ant between the soul and its Maker, and 
must be deeply offensive in the sight of that 
Being who is of purer eyes than to behold in- 
iquity. They are important, as forming parts 
of a whole, items of a mass, links in a chain, 
steps in a downward progress, which must 
lead away from a participation with the 
blessed, in a kingdom, whose enjoyments 
consist of purity and truth. 

We have now come to that consideration 
of the subject of integrity, which relates to 
pecuniary affairs. And here what a field of 
operation opens before us, for the develop- 
ment of those principles of good or evil, of 
benevolence or selfishness, of uprightness or 
artifice, which I have endeavored to describe, 
less by their own nature, than by their influ- 
ence upon the manners and general conduct 
of women! | 

I believe there is nothing in the usages of 

society more fatal to the interests of man- 
kind, to the spiritual progress of individuals, 
or to the general well-being of the human 
soul, than laxity of principle as regards our 
pecuniary dealings with each other. Itis a 
case which all can understand—the worldly, 
as well as religious professors ; if, then, the 
slightest flaw appears in the conduct of the 
latter in this respect, the interests of religion 
must be injured in consequence, and the 
cause of Christ must suffer. 
_ But itis impossible,” say the fair readers 
of this page, “that this part of the subject 
can have any reference to us, we have so 
little to do with money ;” or, perhaps, they 
say, “so little in our power to spend.” Per- 
haps it is the very smallness of your supply 
according to the ideas you have formed of 
its inadequacy to meet your wishes, which is 
the cause of your want of integrity ; for no 
one can act in strict accordance with the 
principles of integrity, until they have learned 
to practise economy. By economy, I do not 
mean simply the art of saving money, but. 
the nobler science of employing it for the 
best purposes, and in its just proportions. 


| apparent assent, will be false ones. In order to act out the principles of integ- 


116 


rity in all their dignity, and all their purity, 
it is highly important, too, that young wo- 
men should begin in early life to entertain a 
scrupulous delicacy with regard to incurring 
pecuniary obligations ; and especially, never 
to throw themselves upon the politeness of 
gentlemen, to pay the minutest sum in the 
way of procuring for them gratification, or 
indulgence. I do not say that they may not 
frequently be so circumstanced, as, with the 
utmost propriety, to receive such kindness 
from near relations, or even from elderly 
persons; but I speak of men in general, 
upon whom they have not the claim of kin- 
dred ; and I have observed the carelessness 
with which some young ladies tax the polite- 
ness—nay, the purses of gentlemen, respect- 
ing which it would be difficult to say, whether 
it indicated most an absence of delicate feel- 
ing, or an absence of integrity. 

Iam aware, that, in many cases, this un- 
satisfactory kind of obligation is most diff- 
cult to avoid, and, sometimes, even impos- 
| sible; yet, a prompt and serious effort should 
always be made—and made in such a way 
that you shall clearly be understood to have 
both the wish, and the power, to pay your 
own expenses. If the wish is wanting, I 
can have nothing. to say in so humiliating a 
case ; but if you have not the means of de- 
fraying your own charges, it is plain that you 
have no right to enjoy your pleasures at the 
expense of another. There are, however, 
different ways of proposing to discharge 
such debts; and there is sometimes a hesi- 
tancy in the alternate &dvance and retreat of 
the fair lady’s purse, which would require, 
extraordinary willingness on the part of the 
gentleman, were his object to obtain a re- 
payment of his own money. 

It is the same in the settlement of all other 
debts. Delicacy ought seldom, if ever, to 
form a plea for their adjustment being neg- 
lected. Indeed, few persons feel their deli- 
cacy much wounded, by having the right- 
money paid to them at the right time; or, in 
other words, when it is due. The same re- 
marks will apply to all giving of commis- 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


on, for want of a suitable opportunity for ar- 
ranging their settlement; especially, never | 
let the payment of a debt be longer delayed, 
because it is evidently forgotten by the party 
to whom it is owing. 

All matters of business should also be ad- 
justed as fairly, and as promptly, with friends 
and near relations, as with strangers; and all 
things in such cases should be as clearly un- 
derstood. If the property transferred be in-- 
tended as a gift, say so; if a loan, say that 
the thing is lent; and if a purchase, either 
pay for it, or name the price you expect. How 
many lasting and lamentable misunderstand- 
ings among the nearest connecticns would this 
kind of integrity prevent—how much wound- 
feeling, disappointment, and chagrin! 

It is a mistaken view of economy, and 
evinces a great want of integrity, when per- 
sons are always endeavoring to obtain servi- 
ces, or to purchase goods, at a lower rate 
than their gust value. But if the vender of 
an article be indebted to you for a kindness, 
it is something worse than Mean, to ask, for 
that reason, an abatement in its price. 

In many cases where our claims are just, 
it is easy to press them in an unjust manner ; 
and we never do this more injuriously to the 
interests of society, than when we urge work- 
people beyond what is necessary, by telling 
them that a thing will positively be needed at 
a certain time, when we do not really believe 
it will. There is a general complaint against 
dressmakers, shoemakers, and many other 
makers of articles of clothing, that they are 
habitually regardless of punctuality and truth. 
But I am disposed to think the root of the 
grievance in a great measure arises out of 
the evil already alluded to, on the part of the 
ladies by whom they are employed. . 

Let us imagine the case of a young dress- 
maker, one of that most pitiable class of hu- 
man beings, whose pallid countenances, and 
often deformed and feeble frames, sufficiently 
attest the unnatural exertions by which they 
obtain their scanty bread. A young lady 
wishes to have a dress elaborately made, and 
for the sake of having it done expeditiously, 


sions. Never let such affairs stand on and | names the precise day on which it must be | 


Wie 


SELFISHNESS, ARTIFICE, VANITY, AND INTEGRITY. 


| finished, adding as a sufficient reason for 
| punctuality, that it must then be worn. The 
| poor dressmaker sits all night long in her lit- 
| tle joyless room, working by the light of a 
| thin candle, while the young lady sleeps 
| soundly in her bed. The Sabbath dawns, 
and the dressmaker is still at work; until 
| passing feet begin to be heard in the street, 
| and shutters are unclosed;.and then, with 
| aching head and weary limbs, she puts away 
| her unfinished task, doubting whether the re- 
| mainder of the day shall be devoted to the 
‘sleep which exhausted nature demands, or to 
| wandering abroad to search for purer air, of 
| which that nature is equally in need. The 
day arrives at last on which the dress must 
be taken home, according to appointment. 
This time the dressmaker is punctual, be- 
cause she believes that delay would be of 
consequence. She knocks at the door of the 
lady’s mansion. ‘The servant coolly tells her 
that her young mistress has gone to spend a 
few days in the country. Is it likely that 
this poor workwoman should be equally 
punctual the next time her services are re- 
quired ? or need we ask how the law of love 
has operated here? 

The habit of keeping strict accounts with 
regard to the expenditure of money, is good 
in all circumstances of life; but it is never 
so imperative a duty, as when we have the 
property of others committed to our care. 

| Unfaithfulness in the keeping and manage- 
ment of money which belongs to others, has 

| perhaps been the cause of more flagrant dis- 
aster and disgrace, than any other species of 
moral delinquency which has stained the 
character of man, or woman either. Yet, 
how easily may this occur, without an ex- 
treme of scrupulous care, which the young 
cannot too soon, or too earnestly learn to 
practise! Even in the collecting of subscrip- 
tions for two different purposes, small sums, 
by some slight irregularity, may become mix- 
ed; and integrity is sacrificed, if the minutest 
fraction be eventually. placed to the wrong 
account. 

, 1. cannot for an instant. suppose that a 


phatic language: “ Thou has not lied unto 


| Christian woman, under any circumstances, 


117 


even the most difficult and perplexing, could 


be under the slightest temptation to appro- 


priate to her own use, for a month, a week, 
a day, or an hour, the minutest item of what 
she had collected for another purpose, trust- 
ing to her own future resources for its reim- 
bursement; because this would be a species 
of dishonesty, which, if once admitted as a 
principle of conduct, would be liable to termi- 
nate in the most fearful and disastrous con- 
sequences. It is the privilege of the daugh- 
ters of England, that they have learned a 
code of purer morals, than to admit even 
such a thought, presented under the form of 
an available means of escape from difficulty, 
or attainment of gratification. Still it is well 
to fortify the mind, as far as we are able, 
against temptation of every kind, that if it 
should occur—and who can be secure against 
it’—we may not be taken unawares by an 
enemy whose assaults are sometimes as in- 
sidious, as they are always untiring. 

One of the means T wanld naw propos tu 
the young reader, is to turn with serious at- 
tention to the case of Ananias and Sapphira, 
as related in the Acts of the Apostles; nor 
let it be forgotten, that this appalling act of 
moral delinquency, originating in selfishness, 
and terminating in falsehood, was the first 
sin which had crept into the fold of Christ, 
after the Shepherd had been withdrawn, and 
while the flock remained in a state approach- 
ing the nearest to that of perfect holiness, 
which we have reason to believe was ever 
experienced on this earth, since the time 
when sin first entered into the world. 

Yes, it is an awful and impressive thought, 
that even in this state, temptation was allow- 
ed to present itself in such a form, accom- 
panied with a desire still to stand well with 
the faithful, even after integrity was gone. 
The words of Peter are most memorable on 
this occasion: While it remained, was it not 
thine own? and after it was sold, was it not in 
thine own power? Evidently implying, that it 
was better not to pretend to act upon high 
and generous principles, than not to do so 
faithfully. He then concludes in this em- 


— 


118 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


SuTree EE EEnE ann NNDEnenennnememneemeneeeeremmnmmnmmmmesnmmee! 


men, but unto God.’ By which we learn, 
‘that every species of dishonesty practised 
between the soul and its Maker, is equally 
offensive in the sight of God, as that which 
is evident to men; and that there is no clear, 
upright, and faithful walk for any human be- 
ing in this world, whether young or old, 
whether rich or poor, whether exalted or 
lowly, but that which is in strict accordance 
with the principles of integrity. 


CHAPTER XII. 


DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 


Wirnour having made any pretension in 
this volume to class it under the head of a 
religious work, I have endeavored to render 
it throughout conducive to the interests of 
religion, by pointing out those minor duties 
of lifo, and thace oerrare of society, which 
strictly religious writers almost universally 
consider as too insignificant for their atten- 
tion. And, perhaps, it is not.easy to inter- 
weave these seeming trifles in practice, with 
the great fundamental principles of Christian 
faith. 

I cannot but think, however, that to many, 
and especially to the young, this minuteness 
of detail may have its use, by bringing home 
to their attention familiar instances upon 
which Christian principle may be brought to 
bear. For I am one of those who think that 
religion ought never to be treated or consid- 
ered as a thing set apart from daily and fa- 
miliar use, to be spoken of as belonging al- 
most ‘exclusively to sabbaths, and societies, 
and serious reading. To me it appears that 
the influence of religion should be like an 
atmosphere, pervading all things connected 
with our being; that it ought to constitute 
the element in which the Christian lives, 
more than the sanctuary into which he re- 
tires. When considered in this point of 
view, nothing can be too minute to be sub- 
mitted to the-test of its principles ; so that, 
instead of our worldly and our spiritual con- 


cerns occupying two distinct pages in our 
experience, the one, according to this rule, 
becomes regulated by our spiritual views; 
and the other applied to our worldly avoca- 
tions, as well as to our eternal interests. 

In relation to this subject it has been re- 
marked, in the quaint language of an old 
writer, that no sin is “little in itself, because 
there is no little law to be despised—no little 
heaven to be-lost—no litile hell to be en- 
dured ;”’ and it is by this estimate that I 
would value every act, and every thought, 
in which the principles of good and evil are 
involved. b 

The great question, whether the principles 
of Christian faith, or, in other words, wheth- 
er the religion of the Bible, shall be adopted 
as the rule of conduct by the young, remains 
yet to be considered, not in relation to the 
nature of that faith, but as regards the de- 
sirableness of embracing it at an early period 
of life, willingly and entirely, with earnest- 
ness ac woll as love. F 

I am writing thus on the supposition, that, 
with all who read these pages, convictions of 
the necessity and excellence of personal re- 
ligion have at one time or other been experi- 
enced. The opinion is general, and, I be- 
lieve, correct, that the instances are extremely 
rare in which the Holy Spirit does not awa- 
ken the human soul to a sense of its real 
situation as an accountable being, passing 
through a state of probation, before entering 
upon an existence of endless duration. Nor 
among young persons born of Christian pa- 
rents, and educated in a Christian country, 
where the means of religious instruction are 
accessible to all, is it easy to conceive that 
such convictions have not, at times, , been 
strong and deep; though, possibly, they may 
have been so neglected as to render their re- 
currence less frequent, and less powerful in 
their influence upon the mind. 

Still it is good to recall the time when the 
voice of warning, and of invitation, was first 
heard ; to revisit the scene of a father’s faith- 
ful instruction, and of the prayers of a lost 
mother; to hear again the sabbath-evening | 
sermon ; to visit the cottage of a dying 


a 
nr ieee ney rp ht 


DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 


Christian ; or even to look back once more 


into the chamber of infancy, where our first 


tears of real penitence were shed. It is good 
to remember how it was with us in those by- 
gone days when we welcomed the chastise- 
ments of love, and kissed the rod that was 
stretched forth by a Father’s hand. How 
blest did we then feel, in the belief that we 
were not neglected, not forgotten, not over- 
looked! Has any thing which the world we 
have too much loved has since offered us, af- 
forded a happiness to be compared with this 
belief? Oh! no. Then why not hearken, 
when the same voice is still inviting you to 
come? and why not comply when the same 
hand is still pointing out the way to peace ? 
What is the hindrance which stands in your 
way? What is the difficulty which prevents 
the dedication of your youth to God? Let 
this question be seriously asked, and fully 
answered ; for it is of immense importance 
that you should know on what grounds. the 
invitations of the Holy Spirit have been re- 
jected, and why you are adopting another 
rule of conduct than that which is prescribed 
in the gospel of Christ. 

I repeat, it is of immense importance, be- 
cause this is a subject which admits of no 
trifling. If it is of importance in every 
branch of mental improvement, that we 
should be active, willing, earnest, and faith- 
ful, it is still more important here. When 
we do not persevere in learning, it does not 
follow of necessity that we grow more igno- 
rant; because we may remain where we 
are, while the rest of the world goes on. But 
in religion, there is no standing still ; because 
opportunities neglected, and convictions re- 
sisted, are involved in the great question of 
responsibility—so that no one can open their 
Bible, or attend the means of religious in- 
struction, or spend a Sabbath, or even enter 
into solemn communion with their own heart, 
as in the sight of God, but they must be so 
much the worse for such opportunities of 
improvement, if neglected or despised. 

I have dwelt much in this volume upon the 
law of perfect love, as well as upon the sin- 
cerity and the faithfulness with which that 


119 


law should be carried out ; and never is this 
more important, or more essential, than in our 
religious profession. The very groundwork 
of the Christian faith is love; and love can 
accomplish more in the way of conformity in 
life and practice, than could ever be effected 
by the most rigid adherence to what is be- 
lieved to be right, without assistance from the 
life-giving principle of love. 

Still the state of the Christian in this world 
is always described as one of warfare, and not 
of repose; and how, without earnestness, 
are temptations to be resisted, convictions 


acted upon, or good intentions carried out? | 


As time passes on, too, faithfulness is tried. 
What has been adopted, or embraced, must 
be adhered to. And in this, with many 
young persons, consists the greatest of their 
trials; for there is often a reaction on first 
learning to understand something of the re- 
alities of life, which throws them back from 
the high state of expectation and excitement, 
under which they first embraced religious 
truth. 

But let us return to the objections which 
most frequently operate to prevent the young 
surrendering themselves to their convictions 
of the importance and necessity of personal 
religion. “If I begin, I must go on.” Your 
mind is not then made up. You have not 
counted the cost of coming out from the 
world, nor honestly weighed the advantages 
of securing the guidance, support, and pro- 


tection of personal religion, against every 


other pursuit, object, or idol of your lives. 
Perhaps it is society, amusement, or fashion, 
which stands in your way. Be assured there 
is society of the highest order, where religion 
is supreme; and if not exactly what is popu- 
larly called amusement, there is a heartfelt 
interest in all which relates, however remote- 
ly, to the extension of the kingdom of Christ 
—an interest unknown to those who have no 
bond of union, founded upon the basis of 
Christian love. 

Is it possible, then, that fashion can deter 
you-—fashion, a tyrant at once both frivolous 
and cruel—fashion, who never yet was rich 
enough to repay one of her followers, for the 


sacrifice of a single happy hour—fashion, 

whose realm is folly, and who is perpetually 
|| giving place to sickness, sorrow, and the 

grave? Compare for one instant her empire 
with that of religion. I admit that her pow- 
er is extensive, almost all-pervading; but 
what has her sovereign sway effected upon 
the destinies of man? She has adjusted or- 
naments, and selected colors; she has cloth- 
ed and unclothed thousands, and arrayed 
multitudes in her own livery—but never has 
fashion bestowed dignity or peace of mind 
upon one single individual of the whole fam- 
ily of man. 

It would be an insult to the nature and 
the power of religion to proceed further with 
the comparison. Can that which relates 
merely to the body, which is fleeting as a 
breath, and unstable as the shadow of a cloud, 
deter from what is pure, immortal, and 

‘| divine ? 

Still Tam aware it is easy, in the solitude 
of the chamber, or in the privacy of domestic 
‘| life, to think and speak in this exalted strain, 
and yet to go into the society of the fashion- 
able, the correct, and the worldly-minded, 
who have never felt the necessity of being 
religious, and to be suddenly brought, by the 
chilling influence of their reasoning or their 
satire, to conclude that the convenient season 
| for you to admit the claims of religion upon 
your heart and life, has not yet arrived. 

I believe the most dangerous influence, 
which society exercises upon young women, 
is derived from worldly-minded persons, of 
| strong common sense, who are fashionable 
| in their appearance, generally correct in their 
1+ conduct, and amiable and attractive in their 
| manners and ‘conversation. Young women 
| guardedly and respectably brought up see 
| little of vice, and know little of 


“The thousand paths which slope the way to sin.” 


They are consequently comparatively un- 
acquainted with the beginnings of evil, and 
| still less so with those dark passages of life, 
| to. which such beginnings are calculated to 
| lead. It follows, therefore, that, except when 
| under the influence of strong convictions, 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


they may be said to be ignorant of the real 
necessity of religion. It is but natural then, 
that those correct and well-bred persons, to 
whom allusion has been made, who pass on 
from the cradle to the brink of the grave, 
treating religion with respect, as a good thing 
for the poor and the disconsolate, but al- 
together unnecessary for them, should appear, 
on a slight examination of the subject, to be 
living in a much more enviable state, than 
those who believe themselves called upon to 
renounce the world and its vanities, and de- 
vote their time and their talents, their en- 
ergies and their affections, to a cause which 
the worldly-minded regard, at best, as vision- 
ary and wild. 

I have spoken of such persons passing on 
to the brink of the grave, and I have used 
this expression, because, I believe the grave 
has terrors, even to them; that when one | 
earthly hold after another gives way, and 
health declines, and fashionable friends fall 
off, and death sits beckoning on the tomb- 
stones of their newly-buried associates and 
relatives; I believe there is often a fearful 
questioning, about the realities of eternal 
things, and chiefly about the religion, which 
in idea they had set apart for the poor, the 
aged, and the disconsolate, but would none 
of it themselves. 

Yes, I believe, if the young could witness 
the solitude of such persons, could visit their | 
chambers of sickness, and gain admittance to | 
the secret counsels of their souls, they would || 
find there an aching void, a want, a destitu- | 
tion, which the wealth and the fashion, the | 
pomp and the glory of the whole habitable | 
world would be insufficient to supply. 

It is often secretly objected by young peo- 
ple, that, by making a profession of religion |} 
they should be brought into fellowship and | 
association with vulgar persons: in answer || 
to which argument, it would be easy to show | 
that nothing can be more vulgar than vice, || 
to say nothing of worldly-mindedness. It is, 
however, more to the purpose to endeavor | 
to convince them, that true religion is so 
purifying to its own nature, as to be capable 


Ce ES 


DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 


any other influence. 

All who have been extensively engaged in 
the practical exercise of Christian benevo- 
lence; and who, in promoting the good of 

|| their fellow-creatures, have been admitted to 
scenes of domestic privacy among the illiterate 
and the poor, will bear their testimony to the 
| fact, that religion is capable of rendering the 
society of some of the humblest and simplest 
of human beings, as truly refined, and far 
more affecting in its pathos and interest, than 
that of the most intelligent circles in the high- 
| er walks of life. I do not, of course, pretend 
| to call it as refined in manners, and phrase- 
ology ; but in the ideas and the feelings which 
| its conversation is intended toconvey. That 
is not refined society where polished language 
is used as the medium for low ideas; but 
that in which the ideas are raised above 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 


hy 
| never been either softened or enlightened by 
: 
| 
| 
| 
| 


vulgar and worldly things and assimilated 
with thoughts and themes on which the holy 
and the wise, the saint’ and the philosopher, 
alike delight to dwell. 

It isno exaggeration then to’ say, that the 
‘conversation of the humble Christian on her 
death-bed—her lowly bed of suffering, sur- 
rounded by poverty and destitution—is some- 

|| times so fraught’ with the intelligence of that 
celestial world on which her hopes are fixed, 
that'to have spent an hour in her presence, 
is like having had the’ glories of heaven, and 
the wonders of immortality, revealed. And 
is this ‘a vulgar or degrading employment for 
a refined and intellectual being? to dwell 
upon the noblest theme which human intel- 
| lect has ever grasped, to look onward from 
the perishable things of time to the full devel- 
opment of the eternal’ principles of truth and 
love? to forget the sufferings of frail humani- 
ty, and to live by faith among the ransomed 
spirits of the blest, in the presence of angels, 
and before the Saviour, ascribing honor and 
glory, dominion and power, to’ Him that sitteth 
on the throne and to the Lamb forever and ever ? 

In turning back to the world, from the 
contemplation of such a state of mind, we 
feel that vulgarity consists neither in religion 
‘itself, nor in its requirements, but in attaching 


Loopeauelipeitt ot oteain eed aca pps eT 


are still more forcibly deterred by feeling no 
‘want of it within themselves. 


‘friends who are no longer watchful or soli- 


‘Involved in new connections, and exposed to 
‘temptations both from within and from with- 


‘tiveness she is peculiarly exposed to pain. 
~ Without religion, then, she is the most pitia- 


fm 
Ce) 
~— 


undue importance to the things of time, and 
in making them our chief, or only good. 

If young people are often deterred from 
becoming religious by seeing a great number 
of genteel, correct, and agreeable persons, 
who, for any thing they can discover to the 
contrary, are doing very well without it, they 


Perhaps you are so protected by parents, 
and so hemmed in by domestic regulations, 
that you feel it more difficult to do what is 
positively wrong, than what is generally ap- 
proved as right. “But do not be so blind and 
presumptuous as to mistake this apparently 
inoffensive state, for being religious ; and re- 
membe}, if itis difficult to do wrong now, it 
is the last stage of your experience in which 
you will find it so. Obliged to quit the pa- 
rental roof, deprived by death of your nat- 
ural protectors, required as years advance 
to take a more active part in the duties of 
life, or to incur a greater share of culpability 
by their neglect ; thrown among strangers, or 


citous for your temporal and spiritual good ; 


out, how will your mind, lately so careless 
and secure, awake to a conscious feeling of | 
your own weakness, and a secret terror of 
impending harm ! “For woman from her very 
feebleness is fearful; while from her sensi- | 


| 
| 


of all created beings. The world—society— 


“nay, even domestic life, has nothing to offer 
‘on which her heart in its unregenerate state 


can rest in safety. Each day is a period of 
peril, if not of absolute agony ; for all she has 
to give—her affections, which constitute her 
wealth—are involved in speculations, which 
can yield back into her bosom nothing but 
ashes and mourning. 

It is not so with the woman who has made 
religion her stronghold—her defence—her 
stay. Unchecked in the happiest and most 
congenial impulse of her nature, can she still 


ble, the most abject, the most utterly destitute 
| 


—- 


122 


love, because the Lord her God has com- 
manded that she should love him with all her 
heart, and with all her strength, and that she 
should love her neighbor as herself: Thus, 
though disappointment or death may blight her 
earthly hopes; or thougha cloud may rest upon 
the bestowment of her affections in this vale 
of tears, the principle of love which fills her 
soul remains the same, and she is most happy 
when its sphere of exercise is unbounded and 
eternal. 

And is it possible that any of the rational 
beings whom I am addressing would dare to 
rush upon the dangers and temptations of 
this uncertain and precarious life, without 
the protection and support of religion? Oh! 
no, they tell me they are all believers in re- 
ligion—all professors of the Christian faith. 
But are you allreligious? Deceive not your- 
selves. There is no other way of being 
Christians, except by being personally re- 
ligious. If not personally religious now, are 
you then ready to begin tobe so? Delay not; 
you have arrived at years of discretion, and 
are capable of judging on many important 
points. You profess to believe in a religion 
which expressly teaches you that it is itself the 
one thing needful. What then stands in the 
way? If, after mature and candid deliberation, 
you decidedly prefer the world, injure not the 
cause of Christ by an empty profession, nor 
act the cowardly part of wearing the outward 
badge of a faith which holds not possession 
of your heart and affections. It is neither 
honorable nor just to allow any one to doubt 
on whose side you are. If, therefore, your 
decision be in favor of religion, it is still more 
important that you should not blush to own 
a Saviour, who left the glory of the heavenly 
kingdom, inhabited a mortal and suffering 
frame, and finally died an ignominious death, 
for you. 

Nor let the plea of youth retard the offer- 
ing of your heart to Him who gave you all its 
capacity for exquisite and intense enjoyment. 
If you are young, you are happy in having 
more to offer. ‘Though it constitutes the 
greatest privilege of the Christian dispensa- 
tion, that we are not required to bring any 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


thing by which to purchase the blessings of 
pardon and salvation; it surely must afford 
some additional satisfaction to a generous 
mind, to feel that because but a short period 
of life has passed away, there is more of 
health and strength, of elasticity and vigor, to 
bring into the field of action, than if the de- 
cision upon whose side to engage, had been 
deferred until a later period. 

What, for instance, should we think of the 
subjects of a gracious and beneficent sover- 
eign, who maintained a small territory in the 
midst of belligerent foes, if none of these sub- 
jects would consent to serve in his army for the 
defence of his kingdom, until they had wasted 
their strength and their vigor in the enemy’s 
ranks, in fighting deliberately and decidedly 
against the master, whom yet they professed 
to consider as their rightful lord ; and then, 
when all was lost, and they were poor, de- 
crepit, destitute, and almost useless, returned 
to him, for no other reason, but because he 
was a better paymaster than the enemy, un- 
der whose colors they had fought for the 
whole of their previous lives? What should 
we say, if we beheld this gracious master 
willing to receive them on such terms, and 
not only to receive, but to honor and reward 
them with the choicest treasures of his king- 
dom? We should say, that one of the most 
agonizing thoughts which could haunt the 
bosom of each of those faithless servants, 
would be regret and self-reproach, that he 
had not earlier entered upon the service of 
his rightful lord. 

There is besides, this fearful consideration 
connected with the indecision of youth, that 
in religious experience none can remain sta- 
tionary. Where there is no progress, there 
must be a falling back. He who is not with 
me, is against me, was the appalling language 
of our Saviour when on earth; by which 
those who are halting between two opinions, 
and those who are imagining themselves safe 
on neutral ground, are alike condemned, as 
being opposed to the Redeemer’s kingdom. 
It is but reasonable, however, that the young 
should understand the principles, and reflect 
maturely upon the claims of religion, before 


——— 


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en a 


DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 


their decision is openly declared. Much in- 
jury has been done to individuals, as well as 
to society at large, by a precipitate and uncal- 
culating readiness to enlist under the banners of 
the Cross, before the duties of a faithful soldier 
of Christ have been duly considered. It is 
the tendency of ardent youth, to invest what- 
ever it delights in for the moment, with ideal 
qualities adapted to its taste and fancy. Thus 
has religion often—too often—been decked in 
charms more appropriate to the divinities of 
Greece and Rome, than to the worship of a 
self-denying and persecuted people, whose 
lot on earth, they have been fully warned, is 
not to be one of luxury or repose. 

The first and severest disappointment to 
which the young enthusiast in religion is sub- 
ject, is generally that of finding, on a nearer 
acquaintance with the devout men and hon- 
orable women who compose the religious 
societies into which they are admitted, that 
they have faults and failings like the rest of 
mankind, and even inconsistencies in their 
spiritual walk, which are still more unexpect- 
ed, and more difficult to reconcile. The first 
impulse of the young, on making this dis- 
covery, is often to give up the cause alto- 
gether; “for if such,” say they, “ be the defects 
of the Christian character, after such a season 
of experience, and while occupying so exalted 
-a position, it can be of little use to us to perse- 
vere in the same course.” ‘They forget, or 
perhaps they never have considered, that the 
highest attainment of the Christian in this 
world, is often that of alternate error and re- 
pentance ; and that itis the state of the heart 
before God, of which he alone is the judge, 
which constitutes the difference between a 
penitent, and an impenitent sinner. Besides 
which, they know not all. The secret strug- 
eles of the heart, the temptations overcome, 
the tears of repentance, which no human eye 
beholds, must alike be hid from them, as well 
as the fearful effects upon the peace of mind 
which these inconsistencies so seriously dis- 
turb, or destroy. 

A wiser application of this humbling lesson, 
would be, for youth to reflect, that if such be 
the defects in the character of more experi- 


123 


enced Christians, they themselves enjoy the 
greatest of all privileges, that of profiting by 
the example of others, so as to avoid stumbling 
where they have fallen ; and instead of petu- 
lently turning back froma path which will 
still rernain to be right, though thousands up- 
on thousands should wander from it, they 
will thus be enabled to steer a steadier course, 
and to finish it with greater joy. 

Another great discouragement to the young, 
consists in finding their efforts to do good so 
feeble and unavailing—nay, sometimes al- 
most productive of evil, rather than of good. 
In their charities, especially, they find their 
confidence abused, and their intentions mis- 
understood. On every hand, the coldness of 
the rich, and the ingratitude of the poor, alike 
repel their ardor. If they engage in schools, 
no one appears the%better for their instruction ; 
if they connect themselves with bene volentso- 
cieties, they find their individual efforts so 
trifling, in comparison with the guilt and the 
misery which prevail, as scarcely to appear 
deserving of repetition ; while, in the distribu- 
tion of religious books, and the general atten- 
tion they give to the spiritual concerns of the 
ignorant and the destitute, they perceive 
no fruit of all their zeal, and all their labor. 

I freely grant, that these are very natural 
and reasonable causes of depression, and such 
as few can altogether withstand ; but there is 
one important secret which would operate as 
a remedy for such depression, if we could ful- 
ly realize its supporting and consoling power. 
The secret is, are we doing all this unto God, 
or unto man? Jfwito man, and in our own 
strength, and solely for the sake of going 
about doing good ; but especially if we have 
done it for the sake of having been seen and 
known to have done it; even if we have done 
it for the sake of the reward which we be- 
lieve to follow the performance of every laud- 
able act; or with a secret hope of thereby 
purchasing the favor of God; we have no 
need to be surprised, or to murmur at such 
unsatisfactory results, which may possibly 
have been designed as our wholesome chas- 
tisement, or as the means of checking our fur- 
ther progress in folly and presumption. 


———————E——————E—EEEE—————————E ee OPEL ins 


To GER SRr eR nch ap Se Se 
Fn a ONE SSR AT RRR NRTT TT i RS I SEI a ETT eT I aT EE I CA GLE eT NOT TID 


Se as Pa RE APE IRE ASTROS IIS 


ner ee gp a 
a 


re er rt 
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TE I 
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124 


But, if in every act of duty or kindness we 
engage in, we are actuated simply by a love 
to God, and a sense of the vast debt of grati- 
tude we owe for all the unmerited mercies we 
enjoy, accompanied with a conviction, that 
whatever the apparent results may be, our 
debt and our duty are still the same; that 
whatever the apparent results may be, our 
heavenly Father has the overruling of them, 
and is able to make every thing contribute to 
the promotion of his glory and the extension 
of the Redeemer’s kingdom, though in ways 
which we may neither be able to perceive 
nor understand ; then, indeed, with this view 
of the subject, we are enabled to persevere 
through every discouragement, rejoicing only 
in the ability to labor, and leaving the fruit 
of our labor with him who has appointed 
both. 

I must yet allude to ancther cause of dis- 
couragement with which the young have to 
contend, and that is, their own spiritual de- 
clension, after the ardor of their early zeal 
has abated. Perhaps I ought rather to say, 
their imagined declension, because I believe 
they are often nearer heaven in this humbled, 
and apparently degraded state, than when 
exulting in the confidence of untried patience, 
fortitude, and love. The prevalent idea un- 
der this state of mind is, that of their own cul- 
pability, in having made a profession of reli- 
gion in a state of unfitness, or on improper or 
insufficient grounds, accompanied with an im- 
pression that they are undergoing a just pun- 
ishment for such an act of presumption, and 
that the only duty which remains for them to 
do, is to give up the profession of religion al- 
together. 

Perhaps no delusion is greater, or more uni- 
versal, than to believe, that because we have 
been wrong in assuming a position, we must, 
necessarily, throw ourselves out of it in order 
to be right. ‘This principle would, unques- 
tionably, be just in all situations where any 
particular qualification was needed, which 
could not immediately be acquired ; but, if 
the regret be so great on discovering that you 
are deficient in the evidences of personal re- 
ligion, surely you can have no hesitation in 


THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 


safe) V3 on ee ae NEES eA) ie bh. eee 


choosing to lay hold of the means which are 
always available for obtaining that divine as- 
sistance, which shall render your profession 
sincere, rather than to give up the duties, the 
hopes, and the privileges of. religion alto- 
gether. 

it becomes a serious inquiry on these oc- 
casions, whether the inclination is. not wrong, 
and whether a plea is not even wished for, 
as an excuse for turning back, after having laid 
the handon the plough. Ifnot, the alternative 
is asafe,and easy one. Begin afresh. Make a 
fresh dedication of the heart to God. Ccm- 
mence the work as if it had never been un- 
dertaken before, and all may yet be well—per- 
haps better than if you had never doubted 


whether you stood upon the right founda- | 


tion. 

It should:always be remembered, for the con- 
solation and encouragement of youth, that in 
making the decision in favor of religion in early 
life, there is comparatively little to undo: while 


if this most important duty is left until a later 


period, there will be the force of long establish- 
ed habit to contend with on the side of wrong, 
meshes of evil to unravel, dark paths to travel 
back, and all that mingled texture of light 
and darkness, which originates in a polluted 
heart, and a partially enlightened understand- 
ing to separate thread from thread. And, oh! 
what associations, what memories are there ! 
what gleaming forth again of the false fire, 
even after the true has been kindled ! what 
yawning of the wide sepulchre in which the 
past is buried, though it cannot rest! what 
struggling with the demons of imagination, be- 
fore they are cast out forever! what bleeding 
of the heart, which, like a chastened child, 
would kiss the rod, yet dare not think how ma- 
ny stripes would be commensurate with its de- 
linquency ! Oh! happy youth! it is thy 
privilege, that this can never be thy por- 
tion ! 

Yes, happy youth! for thou art ever hap- 
py in the contemplation of age; and yet thou 
hast thy tears. Thou hast thy trials too; 


and perhaps their acuteness renders them less 
bearable than the dull burden of accumula. 
ted sorrow, which hangs upon maturer years. 


ED 
a 


a EET EEE EEE 


DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 


125 


Thou hast thy sorrows: and when the moth- 
er’s eye is closed, that used to watch thy in- 
fant steps so fondly ; and the father’s hand is 
cold, that used to rest upon thy head with 
gentle and impressive admonition; whom 
hast thou, whom wilt thou ever have, to sup- 
ply thy parents’ place on earth? Whom 
hast thou! The world is poor to thee ; for 
none will ever love thee with a love like theirs. 
Thou hast thy golden and exuberant youth, 
thy joyous step, thy rosy smile, and we call 
thee happy. But thou hast also thy hours of 
loneliness, thy disappointments, thy chills, thy 
blights ; when the hopes on which thy young 
spirit has soared begin for the first time to 
droop; when the love in which thou hast so 
fondly trusted begins to cool ; when the flow- 
ers thou hast cherished begin to fade; when 
the bird thou hast fed through the winter, in 
the summer flies away ; when the lamb thou 
hast nursed in thy bosom, prefers the stran- 
ger to thee—Thou hast thy tears; but the 
bitterest of thy sorrows, how soon are they as- 
suaged! It is this then which constitutes thy 
happiness, for we all have griefs; but long 
before old age, they have worn themselves 
channels which cannot be effaced. It is there- 
fore that we look back to youth with envy ; 
because the tablet of the heart is then fresh, 
and unimpressed, and we long to begin again 
with that fair surface, and to write upon it no 
characters but those of truth. 

And will not youth accept the invitation of 
experience, and come before it is too late 1— 
and come with all its health, and its bloom, 
and its first-fruits untainted, and lay them 
upon the altar; an offering which age can- 
not make? Let us count the different items 
in the riches which belong to youth, and ask 
if it is not a holy and a glorious privilege to 


dedicate them to the service of the Most 
High? 

First, then, there is the freshness of un- 
wearied nature, for which so many. millions 
pine in vain; the glow of health, that life- 
spring of all the energies of thought and ac- 
tion ; the confidence of unbroken trust—the 
power to believe, as well as hope—a power 
which the might of human intellect could 
never yet restore; the purity of undivided 
affection ; the earnestness of zeal unchilled 
by disappointment; the first awakening of 
joy, that has never been depressed; high 
aspirations that have never stooped to earth ; 
the clear perception of a mind unbiassed in 
its search of truth; with the fervor of an un- 
troubled soul. 

All these, and more than pen could write 
or tongue could utter, has youth the pow- 
er to dedicate to the noblest cause which 
ever yet engaged the attention of an intel- 
lectual and immortal being. What, then, I 
would ask again, is that which hinders the 
surrender of your heart to God, your con- 
duct to the-requirements of the religion of 
Christ ? 

With this solemn inquiry, I would leave 
the young reader to pursue the train of her 
own reflections. All that I have proposed to 
her consideration as desirable in character 
and habit—in heart and conduct—will be 
without consistency, and without foundation, 
unless based upon Christian principle, and 
supported by Christian faith. All that I have 
proposed to her as most lovely, and most ad- 
mirable, may be rendered more, infinitely 
more so, by the refinement of feeling, the 
elevation of sentiment, and the purity of 
purpose, which those principles and that 
faith are calculated to impart. 


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43 


THE 


BY MRS. ELLIS, 


AUTHOR OF “WIVES OF ENGLAND,” ETC. 


POETRY OF LIFE. 
| 


“Poetry has been to me its own ‘exceeding great reward.’ It has soothed my afflictions, it has multiplied and 
refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good 
and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.’’—CoLERIDGE. 


AUTHOR’S EDITION, x 
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET 


NEW YORK: 
1843. 
| 


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ODE WRN APES Be ah (1) 8, PO 


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Aue %, one Cs ae ranett * 


mit 


A pe 


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ait hxearin 
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In offering to the attention of the 


| 
public, two volumes on the poetry of 
life, some apology seems necessary for 
prefixing to my book a title of such 
indefinite signification. 
c understood to mean mere versi- 
| fication, and life mere vitality, it 
would be difficult indeed to estab- 
lish their connection with each other. 
''The design of the present work is 
| to treat of poetic feeling, rather than 
| poetry ; and this feeling I have en- 
| deavoured to describe as the great 
connecting link between our intel- 
lects and our affections; while the 
customs of society, as well as the 


license of modern literature, afford 


PREFACE. 


If poetry | 


¢ 


of the word life in its widely ex- || 
tended sense, as comprehending all || 


the functions, attributes, and capa- 
bilities peculiar to sentient beings. 


Whatever may be the opinion of | 


the public respecting the manner in 


which my task has been executed, : 
‘the enjoyment it has afforded to the |! 
writer, in being the means of a re- || 
newed acquaintance with the prin- | 
ciples of intellectual happiness, is | 
already in possession; and I have 
only to wish that the reader may 
be induced to seek the same enjoy- 


ment, in a more spiritual inter- 
course with nature, and a more 
profound admiration of the beauty 


me sufficient authority for the use| and harmony of the creation. 


| 
: 
| 
| 
| 


a SS SS SS RSENS NS 


rk Page. 
Characteristics of Poetry We) 
Why certain objects are, or are not 


Poetical 10 
Individual Associations. 15 
General Associations . 19 
The Poetry of Flowers. 24 
The Poetry of Trees . 27 
The Poetry of Animals 32 
The Poetry of Evening . 41 
The Poetry of the Moon 45 
The Poetry of Rural Life . 52 
The Poetry of Painting 60 


CONTENTS. 


The Poetry of Sound. . .°. . . 
The Poetry of Language . 

The Poetry of Love . 

The Poetry of Grief . 

The Poetry of Woman . 

The Poetry of the Bible . 

The Poetry of Religion . 


Impression : 
Imagination . : 
POWel te ols Sts Act oe ts 
Taste 

Conclusion . ara 


| subject of general complaint with those who | called genius. The first of these ceases 


THE 


PORT RY" OF ob TER: 


CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. lating men to write Poetry : the love of fame, 
the want of money, and an internal restless- 
Txar the quality of modern Poetry is a | ness of feeling, which is too indiscriminately 


would purchase—that the price affixed to it | with the second, for without the means of 
by the judgment of the public is equally | circulation there can be no hope of fame. 
complained of by those who would sell—in | The third alone operates in the present day, 
short, that Poetry is at present “a drug in| and small, indeed, is the recompense be- 
the market,” is a phrase too hackneyed, too | stowed in these ungrateful times upon the 
vulgar and too frequently assented too, to | poets who write because they cannot help it. 
need repetition here; except as an established Yet after all, is not this the true and legiti- 


fact, the nature, cause, and consequence of | mate method by which the genuine coin of 
which, I propose endeavouring to point out | genius is moulded? The love of fame is a 
in the following pages. high and soul-stirring principle, but still it is 

Wherever a taste for Poetry exists, there | degraded with the stigma of selfish aggran- 
will be a desire to read as well as to. write; | dizement, and who does not feel that a shade 
to receive as well as to impart that enjoy- | is cast upon those expressions of noble senti- 
ment which poetic feeling affords. in other | ment, which bear the impress of having been 
cases of marketable produce, the supply is | prepared and set forth solely for public appro- 
found to keep pace with the demand, ex- | bation. The want of money is, indeed, a 
cept when physical causes operate against | potent stimulus. How potent let the mid- 
it. If the poets of the present day have | night labours of the starving poet testify. 
“written themselves out,” as the commonand | The want of money may it is true, urge on- 
unmeaning expression is, what, with a ra- | ward towards the same goal as the love of 
pidly increasing population, should hinder | fame, but the one operates, as it were, from 
the springing up of fresh poets to delight | behind, by the painful application of a goad ; 
the world? The fact is, that most of the | while the other attracts, and fascinates by the 
living poets have betaken themselves to | brightness of some object before, which too 
Prose as a more lucrative employment, thus | often proves to be an ignis fatuus in the dis- 


| proving, that the taste for Poetry is la-| tance. But there is within the human mind 
mentably decreasing in the public mind; | an active and powerful principle, that awak- 


and while on one hand, genius is weeping | ens the dormant faculties, lights up the brain, 
over her harvest “whitening in the sun,” | and launches forth imagination to gather up 
without hope of profit to repay the toil of | from the wide realm of nature the very es- 


gathering in the golden store ; on the other, | sence of what every human bosom pines for, 
-eriticism is in arms against less sordid adven- | when it aspires to a higher state of exist- 


turers, and calls in no measured terms upon | ence, and feels the insufficiency of this. It | 
the mighty minstrels of past ages to avenge | is this heaven-born and ethereal principle, 


Parnassus of her wrongs. ‘ | not inaptly personified as the Spirit of Poesy, | 


Three different motives operate in stimu- | that weaves a garland of the flowers which } 


Dn nn i a SE 


ee pennnaeenneoen PDS = oe reatnats on aoaines 
LD ALLELE ELD LL TCL ECS CEES ae 


imagination has culled; and from the fer- | the human mind with all the advantages af- |; 
vency of its own passion, to impart as well | forded by the most enlightened state of civ- |} 


as to receive enjoyment, casts this gar- 
‘land at the feet of the sordid and busy mul- 
titude, who pause, not to admire, but tram- 
| ple its vivid beauty in the dust. It is this 
principle that will not let the intellectual fac- 
ulties remain inactive, but is for ever work- 
ing in the laboratory of the brain, combin- 


ing, sublimating, and purifying. It is this 


principle, when under the government of | rather than of the heart, of calculation rather 


right reason, which is properly called ge- 
nius. It is this principle when perverted 
from its high purpose, and made the minis- 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


el || 


ilization should have become more base and || 
degenerate, as that the treasury of nature || 
should be exhausted, it becomes a subject 
of curious and interesting investigation to 
search out the cause, and ascertain whether 
it may not be in some measure attributable 
to our present system of education being one 
of words rather than of ideas, of the head |; 


than moral feeling. 
While the full and free tide of knowledge is |} 
daily pouring from the press, while books and |! 


ter of base passions, which produces the | book makers appear before us in every possi- 


most splendid and most melancholy ruin. 
It is this principle, when devoted to the 
cause of holiness, which scatters over the 
path of desolation flowers of unfading love- 
liness: pours floods of light upon our distant 
prospects of the celestial city ; and inspires 


the harps of heaven-taught minstrels with | est classes of the community, it is impossi- |} 


undying melody. 

This principle, in less figurative phraseol- 
ogy, | would describe as the Poetry of Life ; 
because it pervades all things either seén, 
felt, or understood, where the associations 
are sublime, beautiful and tender, or refined. 


In short, where the ideas which naturally | worlds of glory; while the seasons with 


connect themselves with our contemplation 
of such subjects are most exclusively intel- 
lectual, and separate from sense. 

That there is much Poetry in real life, 
with all its sorrows, and pains, and sordid 


commonest blessings of Providence,” has 
been already proved by one in whose steps 
I feel that] am unworthy to walk; but since, 
in his admirable lectures on Poetry, he has 


a principle; [ am imboldened to take up the 


into more abstruse and speculative notions 


feeling. 


es 


anxieties, and that “all is not vanity and | dipped in gold, or bathed in azure, or light 
vexation of spirit under the sun,” to him | and fragile as the gossomer, yet ever bear- 
who can honestly and innocently enjoy the | ing them on through a region of delight, 


treated the subject as a science, rather than | above all, while there exists in the heart of 


theme, to which he, above all men (more | mirror in which beauty is reflected—an echo 
especially above all women) would have | to the voice of music; while he is capable 
done justice, had he chosen to launch forth | of feeling admiration for that which is noble 


respecting the nature and influence of poetic | thy for the suffering, and affection for all 


That the poetry of the present times is an | true poetry should cease to please, or fail to 
unsaleable article needs then no farther proof | awaken a response in the human heart. 
than the observation and experience ofevery | And that man is capable of all this, and 

ay, and since.it is as difficult to believe that | more, and more capable in proportion as he 


| 


ble situation, and under all imaginable cir- 
cumstances, so that to have written a vol- 
ume, is no less a distinction than to have 
read one through; while cheap and popu- 
lar publications fraught with all manner of 
interesting details are accessible to the poor- 


ble to believe that there is not sufficient |} 
talent concentrated or afloat to constitute a 
poet. And while the blue sky bends over 
all—while that sky is studded with the same 
bright host of stars, amongst which the phi- 
losopher is perpetually discovering fresh 


their infinite variety still continue to bring 
forth, to vivify, and to perfect the produce 
of the earth ; while the woods are vocal with 
melody, and the air is peopled with myriads 

of ephemeral beings whose busy wings are |} 


from the snowy bosom of the lily, to the 
scented atmosphere of the rose; while the 
mountain stream rushes down from the hills, 
or the rivers roll onward to the sea; and. 


man a deep sense of these enjoyments—a 


or sublime, tenderness for the weak, sympa- 


things lovely, it is impossible to believe that 


| RS SS A 


CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. Oi 


cultivates and cherishes the noblest faculties 
of his nature, we have to thank the Giver 
of all our enjoyments, the Creator of all our 
capabilities. 

How are these faculties now cultivated ? 
“Knowledge is power.” But neither is 
knowledge all that we live for, nor power all 
that we enjoy. There are deep mysteries 
in the book of nature which all can feel, but 
none will ever understand until the veil of 
mortality shall be withdrawn. There are 
stirrings in the soul of man which constitute 
the very essence of his being, and which 
power can neither satisfy nor subdue. Yet 
this mystery reveals more truly than the 
clearest proofs or mightiest deductions of 
science, that a master hand has been for 
ages, and is still at work, above, beneath, 
and around us; and this moving principle is 
for ever reminding us that in our nature we 
inherit the germs of a future existence over 
which time has no influence, and the grave 
no victory. 

Iar be it from every liberal mind to main- 
tain the superiority of feeling over the other 
faculties of our nature. In forming a correct 
opinion on any subject of taste, it is neces- 
sary to examine, compare, and criticise, with 
an eye familiarized to what is most admira- 
ble, and a judgment controlled by a strict 
adherence to the rules of art. No argument 
is required to prove that were feeling al- 
lowed to be the sole impulse of our actions, 
we should become as culpable in morals, as 
absurd in our pursuits; or that the man 
gifted with the quickest perceptions and 
keenest sensibility, yet untutored in scientific 
rules, would expose himself to well-merited 
ridicule, should he attempt in a poem or a 
picture, to delineate his own conceptions of 
grandeur or beauty. Even were he able to 
throw into his performance the force of the 
most daring genius, or the most inextin- 
guishable enthusiasm, it would prove in the 
end, no better than a mockery of art, and 
remain a memorial of his own madness and 
folly. Nor, on the other hand, will he who 
is by nature destitute of sensibility, or he 
who has spent the spring-time of existence 
in the crowded city, and expended all the 
fresh energies of his mind in the bustle and 
hurry of sordid occupations, having laid up 
no secret store of associations with what is 


noble, lovely or refined in nature, be able to 
produce a poem or a picture that will please 
the imagination or warm the heart, even 
though in his laboured performance, the eri- 
tic should find no fault with the harmony of 
his numbers, the choice of his colouring, or 
the subjects of both. 

The qualifications of a true poet are, in 
the first place, natural capacity, and favour- 
able opportunity for receiving impressions ; 
and in the second, ability to arrange, com- 
pare, and select from these impressions. 
Without the former, he must be deficient in 
materials for his work; without. the latter, 
he must want the power to make a rational 
use of any materials whatever. It is the 
former alone that we can suppose to be 
wanting in the present day; for though the 
human mind unquestionably retains the same 
capabilities it possessed in the last century, 
it is possible that opportunities for imbibing 
strong impressions from external nature may 
not now be afforded with the same facility ; 
and that in the present rapid march of intel- 
lect, the muse of poesy may be so hurried 
out of breath, as not to find time to chant 
her charmed lays. 

The same causes which tend to destroy 
that taste, which would ensure to the works 
of our poets a welcome reception in refined 
and intellectual circles of society, necessarily 
operate against the production of poetry ; and 
thus, while we refuse to feast our minds with 
ideas of the sublime and beautiful, we must 
naturally lose the higher sensibilities and 
finer perceptions of our nature. To awaken 


these sensibilities, and quicken these percep- 


tions, by pointing out what it is which con- 
stitutes the poetry of life, will be the task of 
the writer through the following pages; to 
prove, that in order to see, think, or write 
poetically, it is necessary that we should at 
some period of our lives, have had time and 
opportunity to receive deep and lasting im- 
pressions; and that out of these impressions 
is woven the interminable chain of associa- 
tion which connects our perceptions of things 
present, with our ideas or conceptions of 
those which are remote. 

In commencing a serious and arduous 


tas’, it would ill become an accountable | 


agent to neglect the important inquiry of 
what may be the moral good of such an un- 


(ye A Le NOL me aN Ta 


dertaking ; and here the question will natu- 
rally occur to many, whether poetry is of 
any real value in promoting the happiness 
of man. England is a commercial country, 
and we know that poetry has little to do with 
increasing the facilities of commerce, as little 

| as with the better regulation of the poor 
laws, or with the settlement of any of those 

| leading questions which at present agitate 

| the political world. But poetry has a world 

| of its own—a world in which, if sordid cal- 

}| culations have no place, the noble, the im- 
mortal part of our nature is cherished, invi- 
gorated and refined. 

In touching upon this inspiring theme, it is 
impossible not to feel the inadequacy of 
moderate powers when compared with those 
of perhaps the most luminous writers of the 
present day, whose review of Milton’s works 
contains in direct relation to this subject, the 

following eloquent and inimitable appeal to 
the highest feelings of human nature. I 
quote at great length, because I would not 
break the charm of the whole passage by 
garbled extracts; and I risk the quotation at 
the peril of having the rest of my book con- 
trasted with these pages, like a chaplet of 
mock gems, in which is one true diamond. 
“ Milton’s fame rests chiefly on his poetry, 
and to this we naturally give our first atten- 
tion. By those who are apt to speak of po- 
ety as light reading, Milton’s eminence in 
| 
| 


this sphere may be considered as only giving 
him a high rank among the contributors to 
public amusement. Not so thought Milton. 
Of all God’s gifts of intellect, he esteemed 
poetical genius the most transcendant. He 
| esteemed it in himself as a kind of inspira- 
tion, and wrote his ereat works with some- 
| thing of the conscious dignity of a prophet. 
| We agree with Milton in his estimate of po- 
| etry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts; 
for itis the breathing or expression of that 
principle or sentiment, which is deepest and 
sublimest in human nature; we mean of 
that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is 
wholly a stranger, for something purer and 
lovelier, something more powerful, lofty, and 
thrilling than ordinary and real life affords. 
No doctrine is more common among Chris- 
tians than that of man’s immortality, but it 
is not so generally understood, that the 
germs or principles of his whole future being 


’ 
| 
| 
| 
| 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


are now wrapped up in his soul, ax the rudi- 
ments of the future plant in the seed. Asa 
necessary result of this constitution, the soul, 
possessed and moved by these mighty; 
though infant energies, is perpetually stretch- 
ing beyond what is present and _ visible, 


struggling against the bounds of its earthly | 


prison-house, and seeking relief and joy in 
imaginings of unseen and ideal being. 

This view of our nature which has never 
been fully developed, and which goes far- 
ther towards explaining the contradictions of 
buman life than all others, carries us to the 
very foundation and sources of poetry. He, 
who cannot interpret by his own conscious- 
ness what we have now said, wants the true 
key to works of genius. He has not pene- 
trated those sacred recesses of the soul, 


where poetry is born and nourished, and in- 


hales immortal vigour, and wings herself for 
her heavenward flight. In an intellectual 
nature, framed for progress, and for higher 
modes of being, there must be creative ener- 
gies, powers of original, and ever-growing 
thought; and poetry is the form in which 
these energies are chiefly manifested. It is 
the glorious prerogative of this art, that it 
makes ‘all things new’ for the gratification 
of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its ele- 
ments in what it actually sees and expe- 
riences, in the worlds of matter and mind, 
but it comb ities and blends these into new 
forms, and according to new affinities ; 
breake down, if we may so say, the distine- 
tions and bounds of nature ; imparts to ma- 
terial objects life, and sentiment, and emo- 
tion, and invests the mind with the powers 
and splendours of the outward creation ; de- 
scribes the surrounding universe in the colours 
which the passions throw over it, and depicts 
the mind in those modes of repose or agita- 
tion, of tenderness or sublime emotion, which 
sfianifeat its thirst for a more powerfil and 
joyful existence. To a man ofa literal and 
prosaic character, the mind may seem law- 
less in these workings ; but it observes higher 
laws than it transgresses, the laws of the 
immortal intellect ; it is trying and develop- 
ing its best faculties; and in the objects 
which it describes, or in the emotions which it 
awakens, anticipates those states of progres- 
sive power, splendour, beauty and happi- |. 
ness, for which it was created. 


a  ———————  ————————————————————————— eee Ee 


ne Ze 


found and generous emotion. 


CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. 


“We accordingly believe that poetry, so 


| 


there is a wisdom against which poetry 


far from injuring society, is one of the great | wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes 


instruments of its refinement and exaltation. 
It lifts the mind above ordinary life; gives 
it a respite from depressing cares, and awak- 
ens the consciousness of its affinity with 
what is pure and noble. In its legitimate 
and hichest efforts, it has the same tendency 
and aim with Christianity; that is, te spirit- 
ualize our nature. ‘True, poetry has been 
made the instrument of vice, the pander of 
bad passions; but when genius thus stoops, 
it dims its fires, and parts with much of its 
power; and even when poetry is enslaved 
to licentiousness or misanthropy, she cannot 
wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of 
pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images 


of innecent happiness, sympathies with suf 


fering virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation 
at the hollowness of the world, passages 


' true to our moral nature, often escape in an 


immoral work, and show us how hard it is 
for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly 
from what is good. Poetry has a natural 
alliance with our best affections. Itdelights 
in the beauty and sublimity of the outward 
crestian and of the son! It indeed portrays 
with terrible energy the excesses of the pas- 
sions ; but they are passions which show a 
mighty nature, which are full of power, 
which command awe, and excite a deep, 
though shuddering symyathy. Its great 
tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind 
beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary 
walks of ordinary life; to lift it into a purer 
element; and to breathe into it more pro- 
It reveals to 
us the loveliness of nature, brings back the 
freshness of youthful feeling, revives the re- 
lish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched 
the enthusiasm which warmed the spring- 
time of our being, refines youthful love, 
strengthens our interest in human nature by 


vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest 
| feeling, knits us by new ties with universal 
being, and through the brightness of its pro- 


phetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the 
future life. 

“We are aware that it is objected to poe- 
try, that it gives wrong views, and excites 
false expectations of life; peoples the mind 
with shadows and illusions, and builds up 
imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That 


| 
| 


physical comfort and gratification the su- 
preme good, and wealth the chief interest of 
life, we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the 
least service which poetry renders to man- 
kind, that it redeems them from the thraldom 
of this earth-born prudence. But passing 
over this topic, we would observe, that the 
complaint against poetry as abounding in 
illusion and deception, is in the main, ground- 
less. In many poems, there is more truth 
than in many histories and philosophic theo- 
ries. The fictions of genius are often the 
vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its 
flashes often open new regions of thought, 
and throw new light on the mysteries of our 
being. In poetry, the letter is falsehood, but 
the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And 
if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of 
the poet, much more may it be expected in 
his delineations of life; for the present life, 
which is the first stage of the immortal mind, 
abounds in the materials of poetry; and it is 
the high office of the bard to detect this divine 
element among the grosser labours and 
pleasures of our earthly heing The present 
life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame, and 


finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds in the 
poetic. The affections which spread beyond 


ourselves, and stretch far into futurity ; the 
workings of mighty passions, which seem to 
arm the soul with almost super-human en- 
ergy; the innocent and irrepressible joy of 
infancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and 
dazzling hopes of youth; the throbbings of 
the heart, when it first wakes to love, and 
dreams of a happiness too vast for earth; 
woman, with her beauty, and grace, and 
gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth 
of affection, and her blushes of purity, and 
the tones and looks which only a mother’s 
heart can inspire;—these are all poetical. 
It is not true that the poet paints a life which 
does not exist; he only extracts and concen- 
trates, as it were, life’s ethereal essence ; 
arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance, 
brings together its scattered beauties, and 
prolongs its more refined but evanescent 
joys; and in this he does well; for itis good 
to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares 
for subsistence, and physical gratifications, 
but admits, in measures which may be in- 


| 10 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


and peeps into every crevice, and up the | 


nr eS 
K f 
ee a ei ae ee 


Y— 


A NS 


definitely enlarged, sentiments, and delights 
worthy of a higher being. This power of 
poetry to refine our views of life and happi- 
ness, is more and more needed as society 
advances. It is needed to withstand the en- 
croachments of heartless and artificial man- 
ners, which make civilization so tame and 
uninteresting. It is needed to counteract 
the tendency of physical science, which be- 
ing now sought, not as formerly for intellec- 
tual gratification, but for multiplying bodily 
comforts, requires a new development of im- 
agination, taste, and poetry, to preserve men 
from sinking into an earthly, material, Epi- 
curean life.” 


WHY CERTAIN OBJECTS ARE, OR ARE 
NOT, POETICAL. 


Tuat a book, a picture, and sometimes a 
very worthy man, are without Poetry, is a 
fact almost as deeply felt, and as well under- 
stood, as the memorable anathema of Shak- 
speare against the man who had not music 
in his soul. In many books this is no de- 
fect; in all pictures it is a striking and im- 
portant one’; while in men it can only bea 
defect proportioned to the high standing 
they may choose to take in the scale of in- 
tcllect or feeling. The spirit of Poetry has 
little to do with the labours of the artisan, 
nor would our tables be more plentifully 
supplied, were they furnished under the di- 
rection of the muses. But who would feel 
even the slightest gratification in reading 
Wordsworth’s Excursion, with a compa- 
nion, who could not fee] poetically ? or who 
would choose to explore the wild and mag- | 
nificent beau‘ics of mountain scenery, with 
one whose ideas were bounded by the limits 
of the Bank of England 2. ; 

When our nature is elevated above the | 
mere objects of sense, there is a want created | 
in us of something, which the business of 
the world, nay, even science itself, is unable 
to supply; for not only is the bustling man 
of business an unwelcome associate in the 
wilderness of untrodden beauty, but even he 
becomes wearisome at last, who applies his 
noisy hammer to every projection of rock, 


ee 


side of every precipice, with eyes, thoughts, 
and memory for nothing but strata; pre- 
cisely as it is presented to his vision then 
and there, without once giving himself time 
to draw deductions from what he discovers, 
to make an extended survey of the distant 
scenery, or to drink in the enjoyment of the 
magnificent whole. 

In the general contemplation of external 
nature, we feel the influence of Poetry, 
though chiefly and almost exclusively in ob- 
jects which are, in themselves or their asso- 
ciations, beautiful or sublime. Thus, we 
are pleased with a widely extended view, 
even over a level country, purely because 
the sublime idea of space is connected with 


it; but let this expanse be travelled over, | 
closely inspected, and regarded in its minutia, : 


and it becomes indescribably wearisome and 
monotonous. The fact is, the idea of space 
is lost, while the attention is arrested and 
absorbed by immediate and minor circum- 
stances. The mind is incapable of feeling 
two opposite sensations at the same time, 
and all impressions made upon the senses 
being sc much more quick and sudden than 
those made through them upon the imagi- 
nation, they have the power to attract and 
carry away the attention in the most pe- 
remptory and vexatious manner. All sub- 
jects intended to inspire admiration or reve- 
rence, must therefore be treated with the 
most scrupulous regard to refinement. It is 
so easy for the vulgar touch to 


“Turn what was once romantic to burlesque.” 


A tone of ridicule may at once dispel the 
charm of tenderness, and a senseless parody 
may for awhile destroy the sublimity of a 
splendid poem. 

Among the works of art, the influence of 
poetic feeling is most perceptible in painting 
and sculpture. A picture sometimes pleases 
from a secret charm which cannot well be 
defined, and which arises not so much from 
the proper adjustment of colour and outline 
according to the rules of art, as from the sud- 
den, mysterious, and combined emotions 
which the sight of it awakens in the soul. 
But let any striking departure from these 
rules arrest the attention, let the eye be of- 
fended by the colouring, and the taste 


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POETICAL SUBJECTS. 


naocked by the grouping or perspective— 
wie illusion is destroyed, and the poet awakes 
from his dream. It is precisely the same 
with sculpture, that most sublime production 
of the hand of man, which, by its cold, still, 
marble beauty, unawakened by the shocks 
of time, unmoved by the revolutions of the 
world, has power to charm the wandering 
thoughts, and inspire sensations of deep re- 
verence and awe. But let us suppose the 
enthusiast returning to gaze upon the sta- 
tue, which has been, through years of wan- 
dering, little less than an idol to his enrap- 
tured fancy, and that hands profane (for 
such things are) have presumed to colour 
the pupils of the up-turned eyes—let any 
other sensation whatever, directly at vari- 
ance with what the figure itself is calculated 
to inspire, be made to strike the attention of 
the beholder, and he is plunged at once down 
that fatal and irrevocable step, which leads 
from the sublime to the ridiculous. 

‘he human face, the most familiar object 
to our eyes, since they first opened upon the 
world, may be, and often is, highly poetical. 
Who has not seen amidst the multitude some 
countenance to which he turns, and turns 
again, with strange wonder and delight, as- 
signing to it an appropriate character and 
place in scenes even the most remote from 
the present, and following up, in idea, the 


‘different trains of thought by which its ex- 


pression is varied, and its intelligence com- 
municated? Yet this face may not be in 
itself, or strictly speaking, beautiful; but, 
like the painting or the statue, it has~ the 
power to awaken the most pleasing associa- 
tions. With such power there can be com- 
bined no mixture of the grotesque or vulgar ; 
for, though poetry may be ridiculous, it is 
impossible for the ridiculous to be poetical. 
There is Poetry in an infant’s sleep. How 


‘much, let abler words than mine describe. 


“So motionless in its slumbers, that, in 


watching it, we tremble, and become impa- 


tient for some stir or. sound, that may assure 
us .of its life; yet is the fancy of the little 
sleeper busy, and every artery and every 
pulse of its frame engaged in the work and 


growth of secretion, though his breath would 


not stir the smallest insect that sported on 
his lips—though his pulse would not lift the 
flower leaf of which he dreamed from his 


ll 


bosom: yet, following this emblem of tran- 
quillity into after life, we see him exposed to 
every climate—contending with every ob- 
stacle—agitated by every passion ; and un- 
der these various circumstances, how differ- 
ent is the power and the degree of the heart’s 
action, which has not only to beat, but to 
beat time through every moment of a long 
and troubled life”’* 

We feel in reading this passage, even if 
we have never felt befere, that there is poetry 
in an infant’s sleep. Its waking moments 
are less poetical, because of the many little 
cares and vexations they force upon us; and 
no power on earth could convince us that 
there was poetry in an infant’s cry. Yet is 
it neither softness nor sweetness which al- 
ways constitutes the poetry of sound; for 
what canbe more discordant in itself than 
the caw of the rook, the scream of the sea- 
gull, or the bleating of the lamb? 

There is poetry in the low-roofed cottage 
standing on the skirts of the wood, beneath 
the overshadowing oak, around which the 
children of many generations have gam- 
bolled, while the wreathing smoke coils up 
amongst the dark green foliage, and the gray 
thatch is contrasted with golden moss and 
glittering ivy. We stand and gaze, de- 
lighted with this picture of rural peace, and 
privileged seclusion. We long to shake off 
the shackles of artificial society, the weary- 


ing cares of life, the imperative control of 


fashion, or the toil and traffic of the busy 
world, and to dwell for the remainder of our 
days ina quiet spot like this, where aflec- 
tion, that is too often lost in the game of life, 
might unfold her store of fire-side comforts, 
and where we and ours might constitute one. 
unbroken chain of social fellowship, under 
the shelter of security and peace. But let 
us enter this privileged abode. Our ears 
are first saluted by the sharp voice of the 
matron, calling in her tattered rebels from 
the common. They are dragged in by vio- 
lence, and a scene of wrath and contention 
ensues. The fragments of the last meal are 
scattered on the floor. That beautifully 
curling smoke, before it found a way to es- 


el case LAE ITS 
ne ca Te ee 


cape so gracefully has made many a circuit || 


round the dark and crumbling walls of the 


* Dr. James Willson. 


a — 


12 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


apartment; and smoke within the house is 
any thing but poetical, whatever it may be 
without. Need I say the charm is broken ? 

Even after having made good our retreat, 

if we turn and look ou the ioyehbted 

cottage does not appear the same as when 
we first beheld it. The associations are 

changed—the charm is indeed broken. May 
| not this be the reason why fine ladies and 
gentlemen talk so much more about the 
poetry of a cottage, than those who know 
| no other home comforts than a cottage af- 
\| fords? Even poverty itself may be poetical 
| to those who merely regard it from a dis- 
; tance, or as a picture; but the vision is dis- 
pelled for ever by the first gripe of that iron 
hand, that spares neither the young, the 
helpless, nor the old. 

There is poetry in the mouldering pile, 
upon which the alternate suns and storms of 
a thousand years have smiled and spent 
their fury—the old gray ruin hung over with 
| festoons of ivy, while around its broken tur- 
i| rets.a garland of wild plants is growing, 
from seeds which the wandering winds have 
scattered. We behold the imperishable 
materials of the natural world collected 
together, shaped out and formed by the art 
of man into that beautiful and majestic edi- 
fice; but where are the ready hands that 
laboured in that work of time and patience ? 
The busy feet that trod those stately courts 
—the laughter that echoed through those 
halls—the sighs that’ were breathed in those 
secret cells—the many generations that 
came and went without leaving a record or 
| a name—where are they? Scarcely can 
there be found an imagination so dull, but 
the contemplation of a ruin will awaken it to 
some dim and dreamy associations with past 
ages—scarcely a heart so callous, but it will 
feel, in connexion with such a scene, some 
touch of that melancholy which inspired the 
memorable exclamation “ All is vanity and 
vexation of spirit !” 

But let the ingenuity of man erect a mod- 
‘ern ruin, or mock monastery, arch for arch, 
and pillar for pillar—nay, let him, if possi- 
ble, plant weed for weed. The fancy will 
not be cheated into illusion—this mushroom 
toy of yesterday will remain a mockery 
| still. 
| Amongst the labours of man’s ingenuity 


cinema 


than the aspect of a ship at sea, whether she 
goes forth with swelling sails before the 
saat or lies becalmed upon a quiet shore. 
Even the simplest or rudest vessels floating 
on the surface of the water—from the lazy 
barge that glides along the smooth canal, to 
the light rondole that sports among the 
glowing waters of more classic shores 
from the simple craft that ply upon our own 
rivers, to the rude canoe of the savage dart- 
ing among reefs of coral; afford choice sub- 


and skill, there are few things more poetical | 


jects for the painter’s pencil, and the poet’s 
song. Who has not mahchae with intense 
interest a little speck upon the ocean, that | 
neared, and neared, until human fortes at 
length were visible, ‘and then the splash of 
the oar was heard atregular intervals, and, 
at last, on the crest of a foaming wave, ihe 
boat seemed to bound triumphant on the 
shore, where a little band of the long-tried | 
and the faithful, amongst whom woman is | 
never found wanting, welcome the mariners 
home, safe from the storms and the dangers 
of the sea? Who has not stood upon the 
beach, a silent, but deeply interested specia- 
tor, while a crew of hardy and weather- 
beaten sailors launched forth their little har 
amongst the roaring breakers, battling their 
way through foam and surge, now dippiny 
into the dark hollows between every swell. 
and then rising unharmed upon the snowy 
crest of the raging billows. A few moments 
more of determined struggle, and the diffi- 
culty is overcome; and now they have hoist- 
ed sail and are gone bounding over the dark 
blue waters, perhaps never to return. Who 
has not marked, while gazing on the suriace 
of the silent lake when the moon was shining, 
that long line of trembling light that looks 
like a pathway to a better world, suddenly 
broken by the intervention of some object 
that proves to be a boat, in which human 
forms are discernible, though distant, yet 
marked out with a momentary distinctness, 
which affords imagination a fund of associa- 
tions, connecting those unknown objects so 
quickly seen, and then lost for ever, with 
vague speculations about what they are or 
have been, from whence they have so sud- 
denly emerged, to what unseen point of illi- 
mitable space they may be destined, and 
what may be the darkness, or the radiance 


a 


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POETICAL 


of their future course. Or who has ever 
witnessed the departure of a gallant vessel 


under favouring skies, bound on a distant 


and uncertain voyage, her sails all trim, her 
rigging tight, her deck well manned, her 
cargo secure as human skill and foresight can 
make it, while she stoops one moment with 
unabated majesty, to rise more proudly the 
next, bursting through the ruffled waters, 
and dashing from her sides the feathery 
foam ; without thinking of a proud and reck- 
less spirit rushing forth on its adventurous 
career, unconscious of the rocks and shoals, 
the rude gales and the raging tempests, that 
await its onward course. Or who, without 
a thrill of something more than earthly feel- 
ing, can gaze over the unruffled surface of 
the sea when the winds are sleeping, and the 
waves at rest, except on the near voyage of 
the blue expanse, where a gentle murmur, 
with regular ebb and flow of soothing and mo- 
notonsus sound marks the intervals at which 
a line of sleepy waves rise, and fall, and fol- 
low each other, without pause or intermis- 
sion, far up along the sparkling shore, and 
then recede into the depths of the smooth and 
shining waters. 

The sun is high in the heavens—the air is 
clear and buoyant—now and then a white 
cloud sails along the field of azure, its misty | 
form marked out in momentary darkness on 
the sea below, like the passing shadow of an 
angel’s wings; while far, far in the distance, 
and gliding on towards the horizon, are 
those wandering messengers of the deep that 
bear tidings from shore to shore, their swell- 
ing sails now glancing white in the sun- 
beams, now darkened by the passing cloud. 
Musing on such a scene, we forget our own’ 
identity—our own earthly, bodily existence ; 
we live in a world of spirits, and are lost in 
exquisite imaginings, in memories and hopes 
that belong not to the things of clay ; every 
thing we behold is personified and gifted 
with intelligence; the rugged cliffs pos- 
sess a terrible majesty, and seem to threaten 
while they frown upon the slumbering shore ; 
the deep and boundless sea, represented at 
all times as acting or suffering by its own 
will or power, is now more than ever endued 
with the thoughts and passions of spiritual 


existence, and seems to speak to us in its 


own solemn and most intelligible language 


SUBJECTS. © 13 


of terror in motion, and sublimity in repose: 
but more than all, the ships that go forth up- 
on its bosom convey to our fancy the idea of 
being influenced by an instinct of their own; 
so well ordered are all their movements, so 
perfect appears the harmony of their con- 
struction and design, yet so hidden by the 
obscurity of the distance is the moving prin- 
ciple within, that by their own faith they 
seem to trust themselves where the foot of 
man dare not tread, and by their own hope 
they seem to be lured on to some distant 
point which the eye of man is unable to dis- 
cern. 

In a widely extended sea view there is un- 
questionably poetry enough to inspire the 
happiest lays, but the converse of this pic- 
ture is easily drawn—and fatal to the poet’s 
song would be the first view of the interior 
of any one of those gallant and stately ships 
about which we have beendreaming. The 
moving principle within, respecting which 
we have had such refined imaginings, is now 
imbodied in a company of hardy sailors, 
whose rude laughter, and ruder oaths, are 
no less discordant to our ear, than offensive 
to our taste. I[t is true, that a certain kind 
of order and discipline prevails amongst 
them, but the wretched passengers below 


| are lost for a time to all mental sensations, 


and suffering or sympathizing with them, 
we soon forget the poetry of life. 

There is poetry in the gush of sparkling 
waters that burst forth from the hill-side 
in some lonely and sequestered spot, and 
flow on in circling eddies amongst the rocks 
and fern, and tendrils of wild plants ; on, on 
for ever—unexhausted, and yet perpetually 
losing themselves in the bosom of the silent 
and majestic river, where the hurry and 
murmur of their course is lost, like the rest- 
less passions that agitate the breast of man 
in the ocean of eternity: and there is poetry 
in the burst of the cataract that comes over 
the brow of the precipice with a seeming 
consciousness of its own power to bear down, 
and to subdue. put 

It is related of Richard Wilson, that when 
he first beheld the celebrated falls of Terni, 
he exclaimed “Well done, water!” Here, 
indeed, was no poetry—no association. His 
mind was too full of that mighty object as 
it first struck upon his senses, to admit at the 


moment of any relative idea; his exclama- 
tion was one of mere animal surprise, such 
as his dog might have uttered, had he pos- 
sessed the organs of speech. And yet the 
same man, when he seized his pencil, and 
gaye up his imagination to the full force of 
those impressions which, if we may judge 
by his works, few have felt more intensely, 
was able to portray nature, not merely seen 
as it is in any given section of the earth’s 
surface, but to group together, and embody 
in one scene, all that is most harmonious in 
the quickly changing and diversified beauties 
of wood and water—hill and valley—sombre 
shade and glowing sunshine—deep solitudes, 
and resplendent heavens. 

There is poetry in the hum of bees, when 
the orchards are in bloom, and the sun is 
shining in unclouded spendour upon the 
waving meadows, and the garden is rich- 
ly spangled with spring flowers. There 
is poetry in the hum of the bee, because it 
brings back to us, as in a dream, the memo- 
ry of bygone days, when our hearts were 
alive to the happiness of childhood—the time 
when we could lie down upon the green bank 
and enjoy the stillness of summer’s noon, 
when our hopes were in the blossoms of the 
orchard, our delight in the sun-shine, our un- 
tiring rambles in the meadows, and our per- 
petual amusement in the scented flowers. 
Since these days, time has rolled over us 
with such a diversity of incident, bringing 
so many changes in our modes of living and 
thinking, that we have learned, perhaps at 
some cost, to analyze our feelings, and to 
say, rather than feel, that there is poetry in 
the hum of bees. 

But let one of these honey-laden wander- 
ers find his way into our apartment, and 
while he struggles with frantic efforts to 
escape through the closed window, we cease 
to find pleasure in his busy hum. 

There is poetry in the flowers that grow 
in sweet profusion upon wild and unculti- 
vated spots of earth; exposing their delicate 
leaves to the tread of the rude inhabitants 
of the wilderness, and spreading forth their 
scented charms to the careless mountain 
wind—in the thousand, thousand little stars 
of beauty looking forth like eyes, with no 
eye to look again; or cups that seem formed 
to catch the dew drops; or spiral pyramids 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


of varied hue shooting up from leafy beds, 
and pointing faithfully to the shining sky ; 
or crowns of golden splendour mounted 
upon fragile stems; or purple wreaths that 
never touched a human brow; all bursting 
forth, blooming and then fading, with end- 
less succession in the midst of untrodden 
wilds ;—in rain and sunshine, in silent night, 
and glowing day, with an end and purpose 
in their brief existence inscrutable to the 
mind of man. 

The flowers of the garden, though pos- 
sessing more richness and gorgeous beauty, 
are less poetical, because we see too clearly 
in their arrangement and culture, the art 
and labour of man; we are reminded at 
every group of the work of the spade, and 
perceive at once and without mystery, why 
they have been planted in the exact spot 
where they now grow. 

There is poetry in the first contemplation 
of those numerous islands which gem the 
southern ocean—poetry in the majestic hills 
that rise one above another, their varied 
peaks and precipices clear and bright in 
unclouded sunshine, and their very summits 
clothed with unfading verdure ; while burst- 


a 
i REDE I RETO I. 


ing from amongst their deep recesses are. 


innumerable streams that glide down their 
rugged sides, now glancing out like threads 
of silver, now hidden in shade and darkness, 
until they find their way into the broad and 
silent lagoon, where the angry surf subsides, 
and the mountains, woods, and streams, are 
seen again reflected in the glassy mirror of 
the unruffled water—unruffled, save by the 
rapid gliding of the light canoe, that darts 
among the coral rocks, and then lies moored 
in still water beneath some stately tree, 
whose leafy boughs form a welcome canopy 
of shade for the luxuriant revellers in that 
sunny clime. 

Time was when those who had rejoiced 
over the first contemplation of this scene 
were compelled to mourn over the contrast 
which ignorance and barbarism presented 
on a nearer view, but now, blessed be the 
power that can harmonize the heart of man 
with all that is grateful and genial in the 
external world, the traveller approaching, 
and beholding this lovely picture, need no 
longer shrink from the horrors which a 
closer inspection formerly revealed. 


eae | | 
———— a 
ce a NT 


Oe nn 


POETICAL SUBJECTS. isl 


If external nature abounds with poetry, 
how much more forcibly does it pervade 
the faculties and sentiments of the human 
mind. Consider only three—lowe, hope, 
and memory. What power even in the 
visions of the alchemist was ever able to 
transform like the passion of love? Invest- 
ing what is real with all that we desire, 
converting deformity into loveliness, ex- 
changing discord for harmony, giving to the 
eye the exquisite faculty of beautifying 
whatever it beholds, and to the ear a secret 
charm that turns every sound to music. 
And hope would be hope no longer if it did 
not paint the future in the colours we most 
admire. Its very existence depends upon 
the power it possesses to sweeten to the 
latest dregs, the otherwise bitter cup of life. 
Yet love and hope may be degraded by the 
false estimate we sometimes form of what is 
worthy of our admiration. Passion too 
ofien asserts her mastery over both, compell- 
ing her blind and willing slaves to call evil 
good, and good evil; while memory, if not 
always faithful to her trust, is at least dis- 
posed to hold it charitably, and thus pre- 
serves in their genuine distinctness, the fair- 


est passages of life, but kindly obscures 


‘| those which are most revolting in remem- 


brance. In looking back upon the past, 
how little that is sordid, mean, or selfish, 
appears conspicuous now. Past hours of 
simple, every-day enjoyment, are invested 
with a charm they knew not at the time. 
A veil is thrown over the petty cares of by- 
gone years—passion is disarmed of its 
earth-born violence, and sorrow looks so 
lovely in the distance, that we almost per- 
suade ourselves it was better to weep such 
tears as we wept then, than to smile as we 
smile now. 

But why pursue this theme? It is evi- 
dent that neither sounds, objects, nor sub- 
jects of contemplation are poetical in them- 
selves, but in their associations; and that they 
are so just in proportion as these associa- 
tions are intellectual and refined. Nature is 
full of poetry, from the high mountain to the 
sheltered valley, from the bleak promontory 
to the myrtle grove, from the star-lit hea- 
vens to the slumbering earth; and the mind 
that can most divest itself of ideas and sen- 
sations belonging exclusively to matter, will 


be able to expatiate in the realms of nature 
with the most perfect fruition of delight. 


-_——-) 


INDIVIDUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 


Tue difference of taste not unfrequently 
found in persons whose station and habits 
of life are similar may be attributed both to 
individual conformation, and to those in- 
stances of early bias received from local cir- 
cumstances which none can remember, and 
which, consequently, no pen can record. 
That variety of taste is chiefly owing to the 
influence of association, is shown by those 
minor preferences or antipathies which cer- 
tain individuals evince for things possessing 
no quality inherent in themselves to justify 
such peculiar choice or rejection, and which 


have no corresponding value in the opinion || — 


of mankind in general. 
Without returning to the days of infancy, 
when the first impressions were made upon 


our senses, when our eyes were first able to | 


see, and our ears to hear, it would be im- 
possible to trace to their origin all our pecu- 
liarities of taste and feeling, or to assign the 
precise reason why we are subject to sensa- 
tions of pleasure or disgust from causes 
which do not influence the rest of mankind 
in a similar manner—sensations which, from 
their singularity, and, to others, apparent 
absurdity, necessarily fall under the stigma 
of caprice. 

Who can say how far his peculiar ideas 
of beauty and melody may have been de- 


- rived from the countenance of the kind nurse 


who first smiled upon him in his cradle, and 
the sweet voice that first sung him to sleep; 
or of deformity and discord from the harsh 
brow whose frowns he first learned to dread, 
and the voice whose threatening tones were 
followed by punishment and pain. 

If the taste of one individual is gratified 
by a picture upon which a strong and vivid 
light is thrown, and another prefers that 
which exhibits the cool tints of a cloudy at- 
mosphere, it is attributed to some peculiarity 


in their several organs of sight; but is it not | 


‘equally possible to be in some measure ow- 
ing to one having been too much confined to 


16 


darkness in his infancy, and the other pain- 


fully exposed to the glare of too much light ? 


These may appear but idle speculations, 
since we are, and ever must remain in want 


of that master key to the human under- 


standing—the knowledge of the state of the 
infant mind, its degree of susceptibility, and 
the manner in which it first receives impres- 
sions through the organs of sense. So far 
as we can recollect, however, it is clear to 
all who will take the trouble to examine the 
subject, that strong partialities and preju- 
dices are imbibed in very early life, before 
we are capable of reasoning, and that these 
sometimes remain with us to the last. 

There are seldom two persons who agree 
exactly in their admiration of the proper 
names of individuals. One approves what 
the other rejects, and scarcely one instance 
in twenty occurs in which their feelings are 
the same: nor is it merely the harmony or 


' discord of the sound which occasions their 


preference or dislike. Each attaches to the 
name in question a distinct character, most 
probably owing to some association of ideas 
between that name and a certain individual 
known in early life; and though they may 
have both known and lived amongst the 
same individuals, it is hardly probable that 
two minds should have regarded them pre- 
cisely in the same manner. Hence from 
different associations arises a diflerence of 
taste. 

In the present state of society there are 
few persons who have not, in the course of 
their reading, become familiarized with 
Scripture names earlier than with any other ; 
and this, one would suppose, should lead to 
their being generally preferred and adopted. 
Yet so far from this being the case, they are 
many of them regarded with a degree of 
ridicule and disgust, which can only be ac- 
counted for by our first becoming acquainted 
with them before we have been inspired 
with love, gratitude, or reverence for the 
Record in which they are found. Nor is it 
easy to account for the perversion of the 
fine, full-sounding Roman names, in their 
usual application to our dogs, and other ani- 
mals; and next to them to those miserable 
outcasts from human fellowship, which a 
professedly Christian world has deemed 
unworthy of a Christian nomenclature—the 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


negro slaves; unless that schoolboys have 
generally enjoyed the honour of naming 
their os dogs, when they were more 
familiar with Cesar’s Commentaries, than 
with the character of the illustrious Roman, 
Why are we not able for many years after 
our emancipation, to perceive and relish the 
beauties of those selections from the ablest 
poets, which we were compelled to learn by 
heart, as punishments at school? It is be- 
cause our first acquaintance with them was 
formed under sensations of pain and compul- 
sion, which time is long in wearing out. 

If, by the mere sound of a narne, such dif- 
ferent sensations are excited in different 
minds, how much more extensive must be 
the variety of those. called up by words of 
more comprehensive signification! Let us 
suppose four individuals—a newly elected 
member of parliament, a tradesman, a pau- 
per, and a poet—each at liberty to pursue 
his own reflections, when the word winter is 
suddenly introduced to his mind. The 
statesman immediately thinks of the next 
convocation of the representatives’ of the 
people, when he shall stand forth to make 
his maiden speech; of the important sub- 
jects that will, probably, be laid before the 
consideration of the house, of the part he 
shall feel himself called upon to take in the 
discussion of these, and how he may be able 
to act so as to satisfy the claims of his con- 
stituents, and his conscience, without offend- 
ing either. The tradesman thinks of his 
bills, and his bad debts; of the price of 
coals, and the winter fashions. The pauper 
thinks—and shivers while he thinks—of the 
cold blasts of that inclement season, of the 
various signs and prophecies that fortell a 
hard winter, and of how much, or rather 
how little the parish overseers will be likely 
to allow to his necessities for clothing, food, 
and fire. By a slight, and almost instanta- 
neous transition of thought, one of these 
thinkers has already arrived at the idea of 
conscience, another at that of fashion, and a 
third at that of fire. But the poet (provided 
he be not identified with the pauper) pass- 
ing over subjects of merely local interest, 
knows no bounds to his associations. His 
lively and unshackled fancy first carries him 
northward, to those frozen regions which 
man haé visited but in thought. Here he 


BS aor te 


Se ee 


INDIVIDUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 


floats through the thin and piercing air, then 
glides upon a sea of ice, or lookS down from 
hills of everlasting snow ; until wearied with 
the voiceless solitude, he seeks the abodes 
of man, and follows the fur-clad Laplander 
with his:faithful reindeer over trackless and 
uncultivated wastes. But the poet, though 
a wanderer by profession, yet still faithful to 
home and early attachments, returns after 
every wayward excursion to drink of his na- 
tive well, and to enjoy the peace of his pa- 
ternal hearth. Here, in the clime he loves 
best, he beholds a scene of picturesque and 
familiar beauty—a still and cloudless morn- 
ing, when the hoar frost is glittering upon 
every spray, and the. trees, laden with a 
fleecy burden, cast their deep shadows here 
and there:upon the silvery and unsullied bo- 
som of the sheeted earth. He sees the soli- 
tary robin perched upon the leafless thorn, 
and hears its winter song of melancholy 
sweetness—that plaintive touching strain to 
which every human bosom echoes with a 
sad response. But quickly comes the roar- 
ing blast, like a torrent rushing down from 
the hills. The light snow is tossed like foam 
upon the waves of the wind; and the moun- 
tain pine, shaking off the frosty spangles 
from his boughs, for one moment quails be- 
fore the fury of the thundering tempest, and 
then stands erect again upon the craggy 
steep, where his forefathers have stood for 
ages. 
dismay, and while the moaning of the ven- 
erable oak resounds through the forest like 
the voice of a mighty and unseen spirit, and 
the bellowing of the blast seems mingled 
with the wilder shrieks of bewildered travel- 
lers, or seamen perishing on the deep, the 
poet beholds in the distance the glimmering 
lights of some hospitable mansion, and in an 
instant he is transported to a scene of happi- 
ness, glowing with social comforts, festivity, 
and glee; where the affrighted wanderer 
finds safety, the weary are welcomed to re- 
pose, and the wretched exchange their tears 
for joy. 

Impressions made upon our minds by lo- 
cal circumstances, are frequently of so deep 
and durable a nature, as to outlive all the 
accidents of chance and change which oc- 
cure to us in after life. Should the poet, or 
the painter in his study, endeavour to place 


Night gathers in with darkness and 


17 


before his mind’s eye the picture of a bril- 
liant sunset, he insensibly recalls that scen- 
ery in the midst of which his youthful imagi- 
nation was first warmed into poetic life by 
the “ golden day’s decline.” He sees, bright 
and gorgeous with sunbeams, the distant 
hill, which his boyish fancy taught him to 
believe it would be the height of happiness 
to climb ;—the sombre woods that skirt the 
horizon—the valley, misty and indistinct be- 
low—the wandering river, whose glancing 
waters are here and there touched as they 
gleam out, with the radiance of the resplen- 
dent west—and while memory paints again 
the long deep shadows of the trees that 
grew around his father’s dwelling, he feels 
the calm of that peaceful hour mingling with 
the thousand associations that combine to 
form hismost vivid and poetical idea of sunset. 

In this manner we not unfrequently single 
out from the works of art some favorite ob- 
ject, upon which we bestow an interest so 
deep, a regard so earnest, that they wear 
the character of admiration which no per- 
ceptible quality in the object itselfcan justify, 
and which other beholders are unable to un- 
derstand. In a collection of paintings we 
look around for those which are most wor- 
thy of general notice, when suddenly our 
attention is struck with one little unpretend- 
ing picture, almost concealed in an obscure 
corner, and totally unobserved by any one 
beside. It is the representation of a village 
church—the very church where we first 
learned to feel, and, in part, to understand 
the solemnity of the Sabbath. Beside its 
venerable walls are the last habitations of 
our kiudred; and beneath that dark and 
mournful yew is the ancient pastor’s grave. 
Here is the winding path so familiar to our 
steps, when we trod the earth more lightly 
than we do now—the stile on which the lit- 
tle orphan girl used to sit, while her brothers 
were at play—and the low bench beside the 


cottage-door, where the ancient dame used |] 


to pore over her Bible in the bright sun- 
shine. Perhaps the wheels of Time have 
rolled over us with no gentle pressure since 
we last beheld that scene ;—perhaps the dark- 
ness of our present lot makes the brightness 
of the past more bright. Whatever the 
cause may be, our gaze is fixed and fasci- 
nated, and we turn away from the more | 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


wonderful productions of art, to muse upon | 


that little picture again, and again, when all 


| but ourselves have passed it by without a | 


thought. 

It is not, however, the earliest impressions 
made upon the mind which are always the 
most lasting or vivid. We are all subject 


to the influence of strong and overpowering | 
associations with circumstances which occur , 


recollection. We are apt to be deeply, yet 
differently affected by certain kinds of music. 
| In the same apartment, and while the same 
; air is sung or played by a minstrel un- 

conscious of its secret power, and some of the 

audience will be thrown into raptures of de- 
| light, applauding and calling forth the strain 
again with unabated enjoyment; while one, 
| 


a meee ate 


th 
: in after life, and of which we retain a clear 


in whose sad heart the springs of memory 
are opened, will turn away unnoticed in that 
happy crowd, to hide the tears which the 
thoughts of home and early days, when that 
strain was first heard, have called forth from 
66 If 
eX- 
claims one, “I should never know unhappi- 
ness again!” “Spare me that song of 
mirth,” is the secret prayer of the stranger; 


: the eyes of astranger in a strange land. 

iis 

“it belongs to my own country. It tells me 
| 

5 

) 


I might always listen to that tune,” 


of the beauty and gladness of my native land. 
Spare me that song of mirth; for my heart 
is sorrowful, and I am alone.” 

Innumerable are the instances of daily, 
and almost hourly occurrence, in which we 
perceive that some particular tone of feeling 
is excited, but know not whence it takes its 
rise; as we listen to the wild music of the 
/olian harp, that varies perpetually from 

‘| one melody to another. We see the thrill- 
ing chords, we hear the sweet and plaintive 
sound, but we know not with all our wisdom 

|| what particular note the unseen minstrel 
will next produce, nor can we calculate the 
vibrations caused by his powerful but invisi- 
ble hand. 

When we hear the tender and affectionate 
expression, “I love this book because it was 
my mother’s,” we know at once why a book 

'! approved by a mother’s judgment should be 
‘| valued by a child; but when we hear any 
one say, “I prefer this room, this table, or 
this chair, to all others, because they be- 
longed to my mother,” the expression 


a tem 


though quite as common, and equally na- 
_ tural, is not so generally understood. The 
room may be the least commodious in the 
house, the table the least convenient, the 
chair the least easy, yet they are valued 
not the less, because they are associated 
with the image of one who was more dear, 
perhaps more dear than any one will ever 
be again. 

I have known the first wild rose of sum- 
mer gathered with such faithful recollec- 
tions, such deep and earnest love, such 
yearnings of the heart for by-gone pleasures, 
that fora moment its beauty was obscured 
by falling tears. The tolling of a bell after 
it has been heard for a departed friend, has 
a tone of peculiar and painful solemnity. 
The face of one whom we have met with 
comparative indifference in a season of hap- 
piness, is afterwards hailed with delight || 
when it is all that remains to us of the past. 
| The pebble that was gathered on a distant 

shore, becomes valuable as a gem when we 
| know that we shall visit that land no more. 
There is no sound, however simple or sweet, 


that may not be converted into discord when 
it calls up jarring sensations in the mind ; 
nor is there any melody in nature compara- 
ble to the tones of the voice that has once 
spoken to the heart. 

Rosseau wept on beholding the little com- |! 
mon flower that we call periwinkle. He }: 
wept because he was alone, and it reminded 
him of the beloved friend at whose feet it |} 
had been gathered. I remember being af- 
fected by this @@cumstance at a very early 

age, and the association has become so 
powerful, that, in looking at this flower, I ||. 
always feel a, sensation of melancholy, and ||, 
persuade myself that the pale blue star, half ||' 
concealed beneath the dark green leaves, is 
like a soft blue eye that scarcely ventures to 
look up from beneath the gloom of sorrow. 
The crowing of the cock is generally con- |, 
sidered a lively and cheering sound; yet I 
knew one, who for many years could not || 
hear a cock crow at midnight without sen- || 
sations of anguish and horror, because it had |}. 
once been painfully forced upon her notice 
while she was watching the dead. 
A gentleman of my acquaintance, in speak- || 
ing to me of his mother’s death, which was |; 
| sudden and unexpected, described the day 


———— ss 


INDIVIDUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 19 


|,on which this event took place, as one of 
those periods in our existence when the 
mind seems incapable of feeling what it 
knows to be a painful truth. He had re- 
tired to rest, with an indistinct idea of what 
had occurred, but remained unable to realize 
the extent of his calamity. It had been his 
mother’s custom to take away his candle 
levery night—perhaps to breathe a prayer 
lat his bed side. As he laid his head upon 
'the pillow, he saw the light standing as 
| usual, but no gentle form approached, and 
iu an instant he felt the full force of his be- 
reavement. He was setting off in life with 
brighter hopes than fall to the lot of many ; 
but that first and purest of earth’s blessings 
—a mother’s love, was lost to him for ever. 
Associations of this kind, however, are not 
such as constitute the fittest subjects for the 
poet; because, from their local or particular 
nature, they excite no general interest. 
They may be powerful in the mind of the 
writer, but will fail to awaken in other minds 
a proportionate degree of feeling; except 
when the sensible object, or particular fact 
described, is introduced merely as a medium 
for subjects of a nature to be generally felt 
and understood, such as memory, hope, or 
love. Thus, the Poet may properly address 
an object of which he alone perceives the 
beauty, or describe a circumstance of which 
he alone feels the pathos, provided he does 
not dwell too long upon the object or circum- 
stance, merely as such, but carries the mind 
onward, by some ingenious association, to 
recollections which they naturally recall, 
hopes which were then cherished, or love, 
whose illimitable nature may be connected 
with all things lovely. By dwelling exclu- 
sively upon one subject of merely local inter- 
est, and neglecting such relative ideas as 
are common to all, the most egregious blun- 
ders, in matters of taste, are every day com- 
mitted. Witticisms are uttered, which, how- 
ever entertaining to those who know to what 
circumstances they owe their value, excite 
no corresponding risibility in the wondering 
or insensible hearers. Anecdotes are re- 
lated, which, from being out of place or ill- 
timed, seem to fall from the lips of the 
speaker as a wearisome and empty sound. 
Subjects of conversation are introduced in 
mixed society, perhaps, intensely interesting 


(-—~ es 0 ee ee ne a 


Lara omy ee eee a 
_ ee ee ee ae re TE LOVES 


to one or two, but from which all others are 
shut out. Books are selected, and read 
aloud to those who will not listen. Pictures 
are exhibited to those who cannot see their 
beauty. Pleasures are proposed, which 
from their want of adaptation, are converted 
into pain. Kind intentions are frustrated ; 
and the best endeavours to be agreeable, 
rewarded with disappointment and ingrati- 
tude. In short, for want of that discrimina- 
ting, versatile, and most valuable quality 
which mankind have agreed to call tact. 
and which might be fancifully described as 
the nerve of human society, many opportu- 
nities of enjoyment are wasted, many good 
people are neglected, and many good things 
are irrevocably lost. 

It would be hard indeed if we might not 
indulge our individual fancies, by each 
mounting the hobby we like best. The ab- 
surdity consists in compelling others to ride 
with us, in forcing our favourites upon their 
regard, and expecting from them the same 
tribute of admiration which we ourselves 
bestow. There is no moral law to prevent 
our being delighted with what is repulsive 
to others; but it is an essential part of good 


manners, to keep back from the notice of | 
society such particular preferences—a great | 


proof of good taste, so to discipline our feel- 
ings, that we derive the most enjoyment 
from what is generally pleasing. 


Sg 


GENERAL ASSOCIATIONS. 


In turning our attention to the subject of 
general associations, we enter upon a field 
so wide and fertile, that to select suitable 
materials for examination appears the only 
difficulty. All our most powerful and sub- 
lime ideas are common to mankind in a civ- 
ilized state, and arise in the minds of count- 


ELS SSSR a EN LE II LE IEE EEO ADE ETE LLL ALLEL LATS E LIEDER, LL ILE LAT LED A ALIE TR 


TT 
A 


less multitudes from the same causes. By ' 


the stupendous phenomena of nature, as well 
as by the magnificent productions of art, we 
are all affected according to our various de- 
grees of capability in precisely the same 
manner. We all agree in the impressions 
we receive from extreme cases, whether 
thev belong to the majestic or the minute ; 


———— ee - 


Se eR el 


| 20 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


| and no one who retained the possession of 
|| his reason would be excited to laughter by a 
thunder storm, or to awe and reverence by 
| the tricks of a merry-andrew. But there are 
'| medium cases of a minor and more dubious 
| nature, in which the poet’s discriminating 
| eye can best distinguish what is exalted or 
| refined, puerile or base; and consequently 
what is most worthy of his genius. Nor let 
him who has openly committed himself in 
verse, believe that such distinction entitles 
him to make laws for his own accommoda- 
tion, and observe or transgress the establish- 
ed rules of taste just as his own fancy may 
‘| dictate. The same celestial . fire which 
| prompts his lay is warming humbler blos- 
| soms unmarked amongst the crowd; and 
'| mingled with the dense multitude which he 
| disdaims are countless poets uncommitted, 
| who constitute a tribunal from which there 
| is no appeal; who must eventually sit in 
i| jadgment upon his works, give the tone to 
public opimon, and pronouncing his irrevo- 
'| cable doom, consign him to oblivion or to 
i| fame. ¢ 

Those who have taken little pains to in- 
quire into the nature and origin of their 

: mental sensations, often express instantane- 

| ously a correct judgment of works of art, 
from what they would be very likely to call 
a kind of instinct or intuitive perception of 
what is right or wrong; but which might 
more philosophically be referred to combi- 
nations of ideas derived from certain impres- 
sions associated, compared, and established 
by a process of the mind which they took no 
note of at the time, and with which they have 
never made themselves acquainted. Of such 
is a great proportion of the multitude com- 
posed; andit is this fact which gives to pub- 
lic opinion that overpowering weight against 
which no single critic, or even select body of 
critics, can prevail. 

The poet who is not a blind enthusiast, 
will learn by experience, if he know not with- 
out, that the public taste must be consulted 
in order to recommend himself to public ap- 
probation. He therefore gives himself up to 
the study of what is universally regarded as 

| most ennobling, touching, or sublime. He 
endeavors to forget himself, and setting 
aside the pains and pleasures of his own 


Le ee as a little private store to 
ARR NA se. ie BMA RPS le Rod 


draw upon when occasion may require, or 
as a secret lamp from which he may some- 
times borrow light to rekindle his imagina- 
tion, launches forth into the world of thought, 
and extracts from all existing or imaginable 
things that ethereal essense, which beauti- 
fies the aspect of nature, elevates the soul of 
man, and gives even to his every day exis- 
tence such intensity of enjoyment, as those 
who look at facts only ag they are recorded, 
and study matter merely as it is, can never 
know. 

General associations must therefore occu- 
py an important place in the consideration 
of all who would study the poetry of life; 
nor will such deem their time misspent in 
following up a close examination of some 


particular subjects with reference to this es- |‘ 


sential point. 


Let us first consider that well known and | 


familiar object, the human face, of which 


even single and distinct features have fre- |’ 


quently been thought sufficiently important 
to inspire the poet’s lay. From the earliest 
times, the forehead has been dignified with 
a kind of personality, and regarded as an 
index to the character of man, whether bold 
or bland, threatening or benign, disturbed or 
serene: nor is it in language peculiar to the 
poets only, that we speak of a man confront- 
ing his enemies with undaunted brow—or 
that he receives his sentence of punishment 
with a forehead undisturbed—that we are 
encouraged to hope for mercy by the bland 
or benign forehead of the judge—or bear 
adversity with a brow serene. Physiogno- 
mists profess to read the natural character of 
man chiefly from the form of his forehead ; 
but whether studied scientifically or not, 
we all know in an instant what is indicated 
by the simultaneous contraction and lower- 
ing of the brow; we know .also, without 
much assistance from study of any kind, 
when the nature of the forehead is noble or 


mean, harsh or mild; we naturally look to |: 


the upper part of the face, in order to form 
those instantaneous opinions of our fellow- 
creatures at first sight, which are not unfre- 
quently a near approach to truth; and we 
may, with some degree of certainty, read in 
the forehead, when at rest, what are the 
principal elements of character in those 
with whom we associate. But scarcely can 


_—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— 
GENERAL ASSOCIATIONS. |. 


eeeSs=={I 


21 


a feeling be excited, or a passion stirred, than 
the muscles of the forehead are agitated by 
a corresponding movement. How suddenly 
and strongly is the forehead affected by as- 
tonishment! and even in listening attentive- 
ly toa common story, the eyebrows are occa- 
sionally elevated, and thus afford a sure 
indication that the hearer is interested, and 
that the narrator may proceed. How strik- 
ing is the contraction of the forehead in deep 
and earnest thought! How unspeakably 
mournful under the gloom of sorrow! How 
frightfully distorted by the violence of rage! 
How solemn and yet how lovely in its char- 
acter of intellectual beauty! It is difficult 
to connect one idea of a gross or corporeal 
nature with the forehead ; all its indications 
are those of mind, and most of them of a 
powerful, refined, or elevated character ; 
from the Madonna, whom no painter has 
thought worthy of a high degree of intellec- 
tual grace, yet whose forehead invariably 
indicates a character mild, delicate, and pure, 
to the dying gladiator, whose expiring an- 
cuish is less of the body than of the mind. 

The forehead, therefore, is a subject well 
fitted for the poet’s pen, and he may sing of 
its various qualifications without fear of 
transgressing the rules of good taste. 

The eye is poetical in a still higher de- 
gree, because it possesses a greater facility 
in adapting itself to present circumstances, 
and reveals in greater minuteness and va- 
riety the passions and affections of the mind. 
Indeed, so perfect is the eye as an organ of 
intelligence, that it is more frequently spoken 
of in its figurative sense than in any other; 
and there is scarcely a writer, however 
grave, whose pages are not embellished by 
frequent poetical expressions in which the 
eye is the principal agent; such as,—the 
language of the eye—the eye of the mind— 
the eye of omnipotence and a countless 
multitude of figures, without which we 
should find it difficult to express our ideas, 
and which sufficiently prove how intimate 
and familiar is our acquaintance with the 
eye as a medium of intelligence, no less 
than as an organ of sense. With the uni- 


versally intelligible expression of the eye, 
are associated our first ideas of pain or 
pleasure, fear or confidence: the infant nat- 
urally looks up into its mother’s eye to read 


there the confirmation of her strange tones 
of anger or reproof, and if there is no con- 
demnation in that oracle of truth, he feels 
that her words are but empty threats, re- 
turns to his gambols, and laughs again. 
The lover knows that his earnest suit is re- 
jected if the eye of his mistress has no re- 
lenting in its glance ; and the criminal who 
pleads for some mitigation of his sentence, 
looks for mercy in the eye of the judge. 

It would be a fruitless expenditure of 
words to set about establishing the fact, 
that the eye is poetical. Every poet capa- 
ble of stringing a rhyme has proved it to 
the world; every heart capable of feeling 
has acknowledged it to be true. 

But while thousands and tens of thousands 
are poetizing about the eye, no one dares 
venture upon the nose; a fact which can 
only be accounted for by our having no 
intellectual associations with this member, 
and being accustomed to regard it merely 
for its sense of smell or as an essential or- 
nament to the face. The nose is incapable 
of expressing any emotion of mind, except 
those which are vulgar or grotesque—such 
as laughter or gross impertinence. It is 
true, the nostrils are distended by any effort 
of daring, but it is rather with animal than 
moral courage, such as might animate a 
barbarian or a horse. It is indeed a curious, 
but incontrovertible fact, that while the en- 
raptured slave of beauty is at liberty to 
expend his poetic fire in composing sonnets 
to his lady’s eye, no sooner does he descend 
to the adjoining feature, than the poetry of 
his lay is converted into burlesque, and he 
is himself dismissed as a profaner of love 
and the muses. 

The mouth, though frequently spoken of 
in a figurative sense, is less poetical than 
the eye, most probably because of its imme- 
diate connexion with the functions of the 
body. In the language of poetry, the lips 
and the tongue are generally substituted 
for the mouth; the one being associated 
with the more refined idea of a smile, and 
the other with the organs of speech. 
Every one sees at the first glance, that 
the chin is not a subject for poetry; for 
though its peculiar formation may be strong- 
ly indicative of boldness or timidity, as well 
as some meaner traits of character, it is so 


a a a NE Oe 


22 


incapable of changing with the changing 
emotions of the mind, that the chin must 
remain to be considered merely as a feature 
of the face, and nothing more. 

These notions, derived from the study of 
the human countenance, may appear to give 
to the subject a greater degree of import- 
ance than it really deserves; for there are 
many individuals not aware that they have 
ever bestowed more physiognomical study 
upon the face of man, than upon the plate 
from which they dine. But let one of these 
relate his favourite story to a stranger, who 
neither raises his eyes nor his eyebrows 
while he is speaking, whose mouth never 
for one moment relaxes into a smile, and 
who gives no sign that he is interested by 
any other motion of the head or face; the 
teller of the story how little soever he may 
think he has studied the subject, will per- 
ceive that he has wasted his words upon 
one who could not, or would not appreciate 
their value. This fact he knows with cer- 
tainty, and withgut being told; because 
from childhood he has always been accus- 
tomed to see earnest attention accompanied 
by certain movements, or positions of the 
face ; and has observed, that the same face 
would be very differently affected by weari- 
ness or absence of mind. ‘Thus, we gather 
knowledge from experience every day with- 
out being aware of it, and are satisfied with 


the possession of our gain without inquiring 


from whence it was obtained. 

The sentiments upon which mankind are 
generally agreed respecting the beauty or 
deformity of the human countenance, origi- 
nate more frequently in association, than, 
without examination of the subject, we 
should be disposed to allow. How often are 
we struck with a similarity between certain 
faces and certain animals of the brute crea- 


| tion; and just in proportion as the resem- 


blance is gross and brutal, we regard it with 
disgust and horror. The ancients estab- 
lished for themselves a standard of beauty, 
as far removed from such resemblance as 
the form of the human countenance would 
allow ; and sometimes, in their contempt for 
the rude expression of animal life, they 
rushed into the opposite extreme, and ex- 
tinguished all apparent capability of living 
—in their anxiety to avoid the mark of the 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


beast, they lost sight of the characteristics of 
theman. The Egyptians appear to have im- 
bodied in their sculpture the first, or rather the 
embryo idea of the sublime; and their huge, 


massive, and unmeaning heads, scarcely | 
chisselled into form, are as far removed in | 
their expression from what is gross, as what 
The Grecians knew better what | 
was requisite to the gratification of a refined | 


is human. 


and intellectual taste. They knew, that in 
order to ennoble their representations of the 
countenance of man, it must not only be di- 
vested of all resemblance to the brute, but 
that, to rouse the human bosom to sensa- 
tions of admiration and delight, it must be 


enlivened with the expression of human in- |. 


telligence. Had they proceeded but one 


step farther in their imitation of nature as it | 
is—had they consulted the sympathies and | 


affections of humanity, they might have im- 
mortalized the genius of the times by pro- 
ductions equally sublime, but infinitely more 
touching and beautiful. 
As the Grecians reasoned and acted in 
the early stage of civilization, so we, in form- 


ing our earliest notions of the abstract na- | 


ture of beauty, reason, perhaps uncon- 
sciously, to ourselves. We see that a low 
and rapidly retreating forehead, sunken 
eyes, short nose, distended and elevated at 
the tip, wide mouth, and scarcely percepti- 
ble chin, are common to animals of the most 
repulsive character; and we loathe the 
image of a human animal in any way re- 
sembling these. With that propensity in- 
herent in our nature to rush towards the op- 
posite of every thing which excites dislike or 


‘pain, we create a false taste, and affect to | 


admire what is not to be found in real life. 
And as most living faces have some faint 
touch of resemblance to the animal creation, 
we are more enraptured than the rules of 
physiognomy would warrant, with the cold 
sublime of ‘Grecian statuary. Nor is this 
taste likely to be corrected, because we 
study these marble beauties as statues only, 
and consequently find in them all that is re- 
quired for loveliness in repose; but could a 
Grecian divinity step down from her pedes- 
tal, and come to visit our couch in sorrow, 
bend over us in sickness, or meet us at the 
door of our home after long absence and 


weary travel; we should then perceive the | 


- = 5 eS aoniiate 
a a TS TE RR SS AE SS a eae a a 


DS SRE AES EL LSS ESL 


| GENERAL ASSOCIATIONS. 


harsh coldness of what are called celestial 
brows, but which were certainly never in- 
tended to relax into the expression of affa- 
bility, kindness, or sympathy. 

The faces which are universally consi- 
dered most interesting, are those which vary 
with every emotion of the soul; which sel- 
dom fail to please in general society, by 
keeping up a sort of corresponding indica- 
tion with the feelings excited by different 
subjects under discussion. Yet these varia- 
tions must not be too rapid, they must not 
correspond with every trifling change, or the 
expression will become puerile ; because we 
are sure that so many different emotions felt 
in quick succession must neutralize each 
other, and we consequently doubt whether 
any feeling in connexion with such a coun- 
tenance can be deep or lasting. 

There is, however, beyond this charm of 
the human face, another of a more abstruse 
and intellectual character, one which more 
properly entitles it to be called poetical; and 
here it may not be improper to remark, that 
a certam degree of mystery enhances the 
value of almost all our mental enjoyments. 
The human mind is so constituted, that it 
feels peculiar gratification in being occasion- 
ally thrown upon its own resources. In- 
stead of being constantly supplied with food 
selected and prepared for its use, it delights 
in being sometimes permitted to issue forth 
on an excursion of discovery, and is satisfied 
on such occasions with very uncertain ali- 
ment. Mystery offers to the mind this kind 
of liberty. We dwell the longest upon that 
face which reveals a great deal, but not all 
of what the thoughts are engaged with; we 
recur with redoubled interest to those sub- 
jects which we do not, on first examination, 
fully understand. 

But to return to the human countenance. 
We meet with many faces animated, lively, 
and quickly affected by the topics or events 
of the moment. We remark of such, that 
they are pleasing, and our admiration ends 
here. But if, amongst the crowd, we dis- 
tinguish one possessed of this capability in 
the extreme, not always using it, however, 
but sometimes looking grave and abstracted, 
retiring, as it were, from the confusion or 
the folly of the passing scene, to listen for 


: 
“ sal i te .-- : 
SS, SSS | ee Sor a NSE 
NE 


ne 


Se 


‘Lord Byron; with a hundred absurdities 


awhile to the inner voice—the voice of the | ceive in what perfection he possesses the 


spirit, while the “tablet of unutterable |! 
thoughts is traced” upon it; we imme- 
diately begin to ponder upon what may be | 
the secret springs from whence flow the {| 
thoughts, feelings, and affections of such a 
character. We bestow upon it much of 
what is closely interwoven with our own. 
We invest it with imaginary powers, and 
believe it to be possessed of resources from 
which the mind may draw as from unfailing 
wells, until at last we seem to have esta- 
blished an ideal intercourse with the mys- |: 
terious unknown, and to have made a friend 
by no other agency than the sympathy of 
the soul. 

What is most generally esteemed in soci- 
ety, might be easily discovered by what the 
greatest number of individuals are disposed |} 
to affect. Thus, while the affectation of at- | 
tention is often substituted for attention itself, 
while dull faces are compelled to brighten 
into smiles without the animation of joy, | 


while brows are stretched into a mockery of 
good humour when good humour is want- |! 
ing; there are deeper practitioners playing 
off the art of being mysterious, dealing in 
half-revealed secrets, concealing their own 
names, looking abstracted by design, and 
forming plans for their own dignity, mimick- 
ing the Corsair, and fancying they resemble 


besides, too gross or to contemptible to enu- 
merate, yet all tending to prove that there is 
a disposition prevailing amongst mankind, 
to admire and delight in what is mysterious. 

If we are generally agreed in our notions 
of the beauty or deformity of the human 
face, we are still more unanimous in our es- 
timate of that of animal form in general. 
Some, it is true, may prefer a tall or a broad 
figure, and others may choose exactly the 
opposite, but we are all of one opinion on the 
subject of symmetry and proportion; be- 
cause our associations are the same, and we 
bestow the highest degree of admiration on 
the bodies, both of men and animals, when 
they posssss the combined qualities of firm- 
ness, flexibility, and adaptation. 

All who have bestowed any attention upon 
the horse, must regard this noble animal 
with feelings of admiration and delight. It 
needs not the aid of scientific study to per- 


% 


24 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. | 


combined qualities of strength and swiftness, 
endurance and facility of motion. Had one 
of these qualities been wanting—had he 
been feeble or inactive, had his power or his 
patience been soon expended, had he moved 
with awkwardness or difficulty, our admira- 
tion would have been considerably less, and 
we should probably now look with as little 
pleasure on the horse as on the rhinoceros. 
Again, every one thinks the stag a beautiful 
animal, perhaps the most beautiful in nature ; 
but the stag wants the majestic power of the 
horse to give him an aspect of nobility, and, 
therefore, our admiration of him is of a qual- 
ified and secondary nature. In the same 
mamner, it would not be difficult to trace the 
correspondence of our ideas through the 
whole extent of animal creation, except only 
where the chain of association is broken by 
accidental or local circumstances ; and hap- 
py is it for the human race, that they are so 
constituted as to be disposed unanimously to 
avoid what is repulsive, and are able to par- 
take, in social concord, of the exquisite en- 
joyment of admiring what is beautiful. 
Had the mind of man been composed of 
heterogeneous or discordant elements, he 
must have wanted the grand principle of 
happiness—sympathy with his fellow-crea- 
tures. He might unquestionably have pos- 
sessed his own enjoyments, but he must 
have been a selfish and isolated being. His 
intellectual powers might possibly have been 
cultivated, but without the stimulus of social 
affection, their growth must have been with- 
out grace, and their fruit without value. T'o 
compute the distance of the planets, to mea- 
sure the surface of the earth, and penetrate 
into its secret mines, are occupations which 
might be carried on by man in his solitary 
and unconnected character; but in order 
that he might enjoy the benefit of a high 
tone of moral feeling, and thus be fitted for 
a state of existence where knowledge is only 
less supreme than love, it was necessary 
that the general current of his feelings 
should be softened and refined, by innumer- 
able springs of tenderness and affection, 
flowing through the finer sensibilities of his 
nature, and filling that ocean of enjoyment, 
of which the human family have drank to- 
gether in unity sce the world began, and 
may continue to drink for generations yet to 


ee ee 


ene ne a “ eed . 
en 


come, without fear that the fountains should 
be sealed, or the waters should become less 
pure. | : 


THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 


THERE are few natural objects more poet- 
ical in their general associations than flowers; 
nor has there ever been a poet, simple or 
sublime, who has not adorned his verse with 
these specimens of nature’s cunning work- 
manship. From the majestic sunflower, 
towering above her sisters of the garden, 
and faithfully turning to welcome the god 
of day, to the little humble and well-known 
weed that is said to close its crimson eye be- 
fore impending showers, there is scarcely 
one flower which may not from its loveliness, 
its perfume, its natural situation, or its class- || 
ical association, be considered highly poeti- |; 
eal. 

As the welcome messenger of spring, the 
snowdrop claims our first regard ; and count- 
less are the lays in which the praises of this 
little modest flower are sung. The contrast 
it presents of green and. white, (ever the 
most pleasing of contrasts to the human eye, ) 
may be one reason why mankind agree in 
their admiration of its simple beauties ; but 
a far more powerful reason is the delightful 
association by which it is connected with the 
idea of returning spring; the conviction that 
the vegetable world through the tedious win- 
ter months has not been dead, but sleeping ; 
and that long nights, fearful storms, and 
chilling blasts, have a limitation and a bound 
assigned them, and must in their appointed 
time give place to the fructifying and genial 
influence of spring. Perhaps we have mur- 
mured (for what is there in the ordinations 
of Providence at which man will not dare to 
murmur ?) at the dreariness of winter. Per- 
haps we have felt the rough blast too pier- 
cing to accord with our artificial habits. 
Perhaps we have thought long of the melt- 
ing of the snow that impeded our noon-day 
walk. But it vanishes at last; and there, 
beneath its white coverlet, lies the delicate 
snowdrop, so pure and pale, so true an em- 
blem of hope, and trust, and confidence, that 


THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 


25 


| it might teach a lesson to the desponding, 


and show the useless and inactive how in- 
valuable are the stirrings of that energy that 
can work out its purpose in secret, and under 
oppression, and be ready in the fulness of 
time to make that purpose manifest and com- 
plete. The snowdrop teaches also another 
lesson. It marks out the progress of time. 
We cannot behold it without feeling that an- 
other spring has come, and immediately our 
thoughts recur to the events which have oc- 
curred since last its fairy bells were ex- 
panded. We think of those who were near 
and dear to usthen. It is possible they may 
never be near again; it is equally possible 
they may be dear no longer. Memory is 
busy with the past; until anticipation takes 
up the chain of thought, and we conjure up, 
and at last shape out in characters of hope, 
a long succession of chances and changes to 
fill up the revolving seasons which must 
come and go before that little flower shall 
burst forth in its loveliness again. Happy 
is it for those who have so counted the cost 
of the coming year, that they shall not find 
at the end they have expended either hope 
or desire in fruitless speculations. 

It is of little consequence what flower 
comes next under consideration. A few 
specimens will serve the purpose of proving, 
that these lovely productions of nature are, 
in their general associations, highly poetical. 
The primrose is one upon which we dwell 
with pleasure proportioned to our taste for 
rural scenery, and the estimate we have pre- 
viously formed of the advantages of a peace- 
ful and secluded life. In connexion with 
this flower, imagination pictures a thatched 
cottage standing on the slope of the hill, and 
a little woody dell, whose green banks are 
spangled all over with yellow stars, while a 
troop of rosy children are gambolling on the 
same bank, gathering the flowers, as we 


|| used to gather them ourselves, before the 


toils and struggles of mortal conflict had 


|| worn us down to what we are now; and 


| 


| 


, thus presenting to the mind the combined 
i ideas of natural enjoyment, innocence, and 
rural peace—the more vivid, because we 
ean remember the time when something like 
| this was mingled with the cup of which we 
| drank—the more touching, because we 


| doubt whether, if such pure drops were still 


= 


there, they would not to our taste have lost 
their sweetness. 

The violet, while it pleases by its modest, 
retiring beauty, possesses the additional 
charm of the most exquisite of all perfumes, 
which, inhaled with the pure and invigora- 
ting breezes of spring, always brings back in 
remembrance a lively conception of that de- 
lightful season. Thus, in the language of 
poetry, “ the violet-scented gale” is synony- 


mous with those accumulated and sweetly- 


blended gratifications which we derive from |) 


odours, flowers, and balmy breezes; and 


vated nature, once more bursting forth into 
beauty and perfection. 

The jessamine, also, with its dark green 
leaves, and little silver stars, saluting us with 
its delicious scent through the open case- 
ment, and impregnating the whole atmos- 
phere of the garden with its sweetness, has 
been sung and celebrated by so many poets, 
that our associations are with their numbers, 


rather than with any intrinsic quality in the | 


flower itself. Indeed, whatever may have 
first established the rank of flowers in the 


poetical world, they have become to us like || 


notes of music, passed on from lyre to lyre ; 
and whenever a chord is thrilled with the 
harmony of song, these lovely images pre- 
sent themselves, neither impaired in their 
beauty, nor exhausted of their sweetness, 
for having been the medium of poetic feel- 
ing ever since the world began. — 

{t is impossible to expend a moment’s 
thought upon the lily, without recurring to 
that memorable passage in the sacred vol- 
ume: “ Consider the lilies of the field, how 
they grow. They toil not, neither do they 
spin; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon 
in all his glory was not arrayed like one of 
these.” From the little common flower call- 
ed heart’s ease, we turn to that well known 
passage of Shakespeare, were the fairy king 
so beautifully describes the “little western 
flower.” And the forget-me-not has a thou- 
sand associations tender and touching, but 
unfortunately, like many other sweet things, 
rude hands have almost robbed it of its 
charm. Who can behold the pale Narcis- 
sus, standing by the silent brook, its stately 
form reflected in the glassy mirror, without 
losing themselves in that most fanciful of all 


above all, from the contemplation of : 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


poetical conceptions, in which the graceful 
youth is described as gazing upon his own 
beauty, until he becomes lost in admiration, 
and finally enamoured of himself: while 
hopeless echo sighs herself away into a 
sound, for the love, which having centred in 
such an object, was never to be bought by 
her caresses, nor won by her despair. 
Through gardens, fields, forests, and even 


\| over rugged mountains, we might wander 


on in this fanciful quest after remote ideas 
of pleasurable sensation connected with pres- 
ent beauty and enjoyment; nor would our 
search be fruitless so long as the bosom of 
the earth afforded a receptacle for the ger- 
minating seed, so long as the gentle gales 
of summer continued to waft them from the 
parent stem, or so long as the welcome sun 
looked forth upon the ever-blooming garden 
of nature. 

One instance more, and we have done. 
The “lady rose,” as poets have designated 
this queen of beauty, claims the latest, 
though not the least consideration in speak- 
ing of the. poetry of flowers. In the poetic 
world, the first honors have been awarded 
to the rose, for what reason it is not easy to 
define ; unless from its exquisite combination 
of perfume, form, and colour, which have 
entitled this sovereign of flowers in one 
country to be mated with the nightingale, 
in another, to be chosen with the distinction 
of red and white, as the badge of two hon- 
ourable and royal houses. It would be diffi- 
cult to trace the supremacy of the rose to its 
origin; but mankind have so generally 
agreed in paying homage to her charms, 
that our associations in the present day are 
chiefly with the poetic strains in which they 
are celebrated. The beauty of the rose is 
exhibited under so many different forms, that 
it would be impossible to say which had the 
greatest claim upon the regard of the poet ; 
but certainly those kinds which have been 
recently introduced, or those which are rear- 
ed by unnatural means, with care and diffi- 
culty, are to us the least poetical, because 
our associations with them are comparatively 
few, and those few relate chiefly to garden 
culture. 

After all the pains that have been taken 
to procure, transplant, and propagate the 
rose, there is one kind perpetually blooming 


around us through the summer months, 
without the aid or interference of man, 
which seems to defy his art to introduce a 
rival to his own unparalleled beauty—the 
common wild rose; so luxuriant, that it 
bursts spontaneously into blushing life, 
sometimes crowning the hoary rock with a 
blooming garland, and sometimes struggling 


with the matted weeds of the wilderness, |! 


yet ever finding its way.to the open day, 
that it may bask and smile, and look up with 
thankfulness to the bright sun, without whose 
rays its cheek would know no beauty so ten- 
der, that the wild bee which had nestled in 
its scented bosom when that sun went down, 
returns in the morning and beholds the 
colour faded from its cheek, while by its side 
an infant rose is rising with the blush of a 
cherub, unfolding its petals to live its little 
day, and then, having expended its sweet- 
ness, to die like its fair sisters, without mur- 
mur or regret. Blooming in the sterile 
waste, this lovely flower is seen unfolding 
its fair leaves where there is no beauty to 
reflect its own, and thus calling back the 
heart of the weary traveller to thoughts of 
peace and joy—reminding him that the 
wilderness of human life, though rugged 
and barren to the discontented beholder, has 
also its sweet flowers, not the less welcome for 
being unlooked for, nor the less lovely for 
being cherished by a hand unseen. 


There is one circumstance connected with |: 


the rose, which renders it a more true and 
striking emblem of earthly pleasure than 
any other flower—it bears a thorn. While 
its odorous breath is floating on the summer 
gale, and its blushing cheek, half hid 
amongst the sheltering leaves, seems to 
woo and yet shrink from the beholder’s gaze, 
touch but with adventurous hand the gar- 
den queen, and you are pierced with her 
protecting thorns: would you pluck the rose 
and weave it into a garland for the brow 
you love best, that brow will be wounded: 
or place the sweet blossom in your bosom, 
the thorn will be there. This real or ideal 


TS 


mingling of pain and sorrow, with the ex- || 


quisite beauty of the rose, affords a never- 
ending theme to those who are best ac- 
quainted with the inevitable blending of 
clouds and sunshine, hope and fear, weal 
and wo, in this our earthly inheritance. 


With every thing fair, or sweet, or exqui- 


wisdom which appoints our sorrows, and 
sets a bound to our enjoyments, to affix some 
stain, some bitterness, or some alloy, which 
may not inaptly be called, in figurative lan- 
guage, a thorn. St. Paul emphatically 
speaks of a “thorn in the flesh,” and from 
this expression, as well as from his earnest- 
ness in having prayed thrice that it might 
be removed, we conclude it must have been 
something particularly galling to the natural 
man. We hear of the thorn of ingratitude, 
the thorn of envy, the thorn of unrequited 
love—indeed of thorns as numerous as our 
pleasures ; and few there are who can look 
back upon the experience of life, without ac- 
knowledging that every earthly good they 
have desired, pursued, or attained, has had 
its peculiar thorn. Who has ever cast him- 
self into the lap of luxury, without finding 
that his couch was strewed with thorns ? 
Who has reached the summit of his ambi- 
tion without feeling on that exalted pinnacle 
that he stood on thorns? Who has placed 
the diadem upon his brow, without perceiv- 
ing that thorns were thickly set within the 
royal circlet? Who has folded to his bosom 
all that he desired of earth’s treasures, with- 
out feeling that bosom pierced with thorns ? 
All that we enjoy in this world, or yearn to 
possess, has thisaccompaniment. The more 
intense the enjoyment, the sharper the thorn ; 
and those who have described most feel- 
ingly the inner workings of the human heart, 
have unfailingly touched upon this fact with 
the melancholy sadness of truth. 

Far be it from one who would not wil- 
lingly fall under the stigma of ingratitude, to 
disparage the nature, or the number of 
earthly pleasures—pleasures which are 
spread before us without price or limitation, 
in our daily walk, and in our nightly rest— 
pleasures which lie scattered around our 
path when we go forth upon the hills, or 
wander in the valley, when we look up to 
the starry sky, or down to the fruitful earth 
—pleasures which unite the human family 
in one bond of fellowship, surround us at 
our board, cheer us at our fire-side, smooth 
the couch on which we slumber, and even 
follow our wandering steps long—long after 
we have ceased to regard them with grati- 


THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 


site in this world, it has seemed meet to that. 


tude or joy. I speak of the thorn which ac- 
companies these pleasures not with murmur- 
ing or complaint. I speak of the wounds 
inflicted by this thorn with a living conscious- 
ness of their poignancy and anguish; be- 
cause exquisite and dear as mere earthly 
pleasures may sometimes be, I would still 
contrast them with such as are not earthly. 
I would contrast the thorn and the wound, 
the disappointment and the pain which ac- 
company all such pleasures as are merely 
temporal, with the fulness of happiness, the 
peace, and the crown, accompanying those 
which are eternal. 


— fh 


THE POETRY OF TREES. 


In contemplating the external aspect of 
nature, trees, in their infinite variety of form 
and foliage, appear most important and con- 
spicuous; yet somany are the changes which 
they undergo from the influence of the sun 
and the atmosphere, that it would be useless 
to attempt to speak of the associations be- 
longing to this class of natural productions 
abstractedly, and detached from collateral 
circumstances. What poet, for instance, 
would describe the rich foliage of the sum- 
mer woods, without the radiance of the sum- 
mer sun; the wandering gale that waves 
their leafy boughs; the mountain side to 
which their knotted roots are clinging; the 
green valley where they live and flourish, 
safe from raging storms; and the murmur- 
ing stream, over which their branches bend 
and meet. There is, however, a marked 
distinction in the character of different trees, 
and a general agreement amongst mankind 
in the relative ideas connected with each 
particular species. . 

It is scarcely necessary to repeat how es- 
sential to our notions of perfection is the 
beauty of fitness—that neither colour, form, 
nor symmetry, nor all combined in one ob- 
ject, can command our unqualified admira- 
tion without adaptation; and that the 
mind, by a sort of involuntary process, 
and frequently unconsciously to itself, takes 
note of the right application of means, and 
the relation of certain causes with their na- 


\ a i. walt 


ll 98 


tural effects. Thus, we admire the stately 
pine upon the mountain, not merely because 
the eye is gratified by a correspondence be- 
tween its spiral form pointing upward to- 
wards the sky, and the high projecting pin- 
nacles of rock, unbroken by the steps of 
time; but because we know that in conse- 
quence of this particular form, it is peculiarly 
adapted to sustain without injury the tem- 
pestuous gales which prevail in those inhos- 
pitable regions where it chiefly grows. 
There is something fierce, bristling, and de- 
fensive, in the very aspect of the pine; asif 
it set at naught the hollow roar of the tem- 
pest through its scanty foliage, and around 
its firm unshaken stem, while it stands like a 
guardian of the mountain wilds, armed at 
all points, and proudly looking down upon 
the flight of the eagle, and the wreaths of 
wandering clouds that flit across the wilder- 
ness of untrodden snow. But planta single 
pine upon the gentle slope of a green lawn, 
amongst lilachs, and laburnums, and tender 
flowering shrubs, the charm of association is 
broken, and the veteran of the rugged 
mountainous waste is shorn of his honours ; 
like a patriot chief} submitting himself to the 
polished chains of society at the court of his 
tyrant conqueror. 

The oak, the monarch of the woods, pre- 
sents to the contemplative beholder innu- 
merable associations by which his mind is 
plunged into the profound ideas of gran- 
deur, space, and time. We are first struck 

| with the majestic form and character of this 
tree—the mass of its foliagé, the depth and 
extent of its shadow, and the tremendous 
power of resistance bodied forth in its gnarled 
and twisted boughs; but above all other 
considerations connected with it, we are af- 
fected almost with reverence by the lapse 
of time required to bring those prodigious 
branches to perfection, and the many, many 
tides of human feeling that must ebb and 
flow, before those firmly knotted roots shall 
Hae to the process of decay. In the na- 
tural course of meditation to which such a 
subject leads, we consider the striking truth, 
that while nations have bowed and trembled 
|| beneath successive tyrants until by the 
wonted course of nature, the terrors of the 
oppressed have given place to the reckless 
desperation that works its way, by the over- | 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


‘questionably is in its peculiar attitude and | 


throw of empires, the destruction of thrones, 
and the scattering of multitudes—while the 
laws and religion of half the world have 
been revolutionized, and what was once 
deemed a virtue has gradually become pun- 
ishable as a crime—while sterile wastes have 
been reclaimed, and fertilized, and made 
fruitful, by the power and industry of sue- 
cessive generations of men, and arts and 
commerce have wrought wonders which 
our unsophisticated forefathers would have 
pronounced miraculous—the same oak has 
stood, perhaps at one time the witness of | 
Druidical rites, at another affording shelter 
to the simple and unlettered peasant tending | 
the herds of swine that fed upon its falling 
acorns: until, years rolling on, revolving 
summers crowning its brow with verdant 
beauty, and hoary winter scattering that 
beauty to the winds, have left it for our 
warning, an emblem of fallen majesty—its 
once sturdy boughsno sooner attacked by the 
worm of destruction within, than assailed, 
and torn, and broken by the merciless blast 
without. 

Strikng and magnificent as the oak un- 


growth, presenting at one view the com- 
bined ideas of ability to resist the strong, 
and power to defend the weak, it is yet 
scarcely less majestic than beautiful. What 
a combination of gorgeous hues its autum- 
nal foliage displays! The eye of the painter 
revels in its sombre glory, its burnished hue, 
and its wild fantastic garniture of green and 
gold, contrasted with its own hoary stem, 
and the depth of shadow that is thrown by 
the rays of the declining sun in lengthening 
gloom over the quiet earth. 

Nor is it merely with the outward aspect 
of this tree that our most powerful associa- 
tions are connected. In a nation perpetually 
exulting in her maratime supremacy, we 
have learned to regard the oak as forming 
a sort of bulwark for the defence of our lib- 
erties. Thus, the British sailor calls upon 
his comrades by the proud title of “ hearts 
of oak,” and England is not unfrequently |, 
described as being protected by her “ oaken 
walls.” 

There are, besides these, many other 
characters or points of consideration, in 
which we regard the oak with feelings of i 


OO an 


THE POETRY OF TREES. 


29 


respect, and sometimes with poetical interest. 
Perhaps it is not least in the scale of import- 
ance, that many ancient and stately apart- 
ments, dedicated to solemn or religious pur- 
poses, are lined with panels of the wood of 
this tree. The same wood, beautifully carved 
and deepened into gloomy magnificence by 
the sombre influence of time, forms one of 
the principal ornaments in many religious 
houses; and when we look back to the cus- 
toms of our ancestors, and the station which 
they occupied, with that respect which we 
naturally feel for their boasted hospitality, 
good cheer, and substantial magnificence, 
we seldom fail to surround them in imagina- 
tion with goodly wainscoting of oak, to place 
a log of the same wood upon the blazing 
hearth, and to endow them with powers both 
mental and bodily, firm, stable, and unbend- 
ing as this sturdy tree. 

Amongst the trees of the forest, the elm 
may very properly be placed next in rank 
to the oak, from its majestic size and impor- 
tance. Yet the elm has a very different 
character, and consequently excites in the 
contemplative mind a different train of asso- 
ciations and ideas. The massive and um- 
brageous boughs, or rather arms of the elm, 
stretching forth at right angles with its 
stately stem, present to the imagination a 
picture of calm dignity rather than defensive 
power. From the superficial manner in 
which the roots of this tree are connected 
with the earth, it is ill calculated to sustain 
the force of the tempest, and is frequently 
torn from its hold and laid prostrate on the 
ground by the gale, whose violence appears 
to be unheeded by its brethren of the forest. 
Jn painting, or in ideal picture-making, we 
plant the elm upon the village green, a sort 
of feudal lord of that little peopled territory ; 
oy in stately rows skirting the confines of the 
dead, where the deep shadow from its dark 
green foliage falls upon the quiet graves, 
and the long rank grass, and on the village 
church, when from her gray sides and 
arched windows she reflects the rays of the 
setting sun, and looks, in her silence and so- 
lemnity, like a sister to those venerable trees. 
There are no gorgeous hues in the foliage 
of the elm, no light waving, dancing or glis- 
tening amongst its heavy boughs. All is 


| grave majesty; and when we see the smoke 


ne 


of the cottage slowly ascending, and clearly 
revealed against the sombre darkness of the 
elm, we think of the labourer returning to 
his evening meal, the birds folding their 
weary wings, the coo of the wood pigeon, 
the gentle fall of evening dew, the lull of 
winds and waves, the universal calm of na- 
ture, and a thousand associations rush upon 
us, connecting that lovely and untroubled | 
scene with vast and profound ideas of solem- 
nity and repose. 

To the willow belongs a character pecu- 
liarly its own. It has no stateliness, or ma- 
jesty, or depth of shadow, to strike the senses 
and set the imagination afloat; but this 
mournful tree possesses a claim upgn our 
attention, as having become the universal 
badge of sorrow, fancifully adopted by the 
victims of despair, and worn as a garland 
by the broken-hearted. It has also a beauty 
and a charm of its own. It carries us in 
idea to green pastures, and peaceful herds 
that browse in deep meadows by the side of 
some peaceful river, whose sleepy waters, 
silently gliding over their weedy bed, seem 
to bear away our anxious and conflicting 
thoughts along with them. Seated by the 
rude and ancient-looking stem of this tree, 
we listen to the soft whispering of the wind 
among its silvery leaves, and gaze upon the 
glassy surface of the slowly moving stream, 
just rippled here and there by a stray branch 
projecting from the flowery bank, or a fairy 
forest of reeds springing up in spite of the 
ceaseless and invincible flow of that unfail- 
ing tide. We Saze, until the precise dis- 
tinctions of past, present, and future fade 
away—the ocean of time flows past us. like 
that silent river (would it were as unrufiled 
in its real course;) and while retaining a 
dim and mysterious consciousness of our 
own existence, we lose all remembrance of 
its rough passages, all perception of its pre- 
sent bitterness, and all apprehension of its 
future perils. From such unprofitable mu- 
sings, if too frequently indulged, we awake 
to a melancholy state of feeling, of which the 
willow has by the common consent of man- 
kind become emblematical. Morbid, listless, 
and inactive, we shrink from the stirring ne- 
cessities of life; we behold the happy flocks 
still feeding, and almost wish, that like them 
we could be content with a rich pasture, as 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


the bound of our ambition—like them live, 
die, and be forgotten. The dreamy silence 
of those low damp fields increases our me- 
lancholy, and the pale and mournful aspect 
of the willow, prematurely hoary, becomes 
an emblem of our own fate and condition. 
It grows not erect and stately like the stern 
elm, or bold and free like the waving ash, 


\| but stooping obliquely over the stream, or, 


shrinking from its companions with distorted 
limbs, tells to the morbid and imaginative 
beholder, a sad tale of early blight, or the 
rough dealing of rude and adverse winds. 
The loiterer still lingers, loath to leave a spot 
where one bitter root may yet remain unap- 
propriated. He listens while he lingers, and 
thinks he hears the willow whispering its 
sorrows to the passing gale. The gale 
blows more freshly, and the willow then 
seems to sigh and shiver with the newly 


| awakened agonies of despair. 


PR se nase lat i un 


Thus can the distorted eye of melancholy 
look on every object with a glass of its own 
colouring, and thus it is possible one of our 
most common and unimportant trees, natu- 
rally growing in the familiar walks of man, 
in the small enclosure near his door, the 
green paddock or the luxuriant meadow, 
may have acquired by the sanction of feel- 
ing, not of reason, its peculiar character as 
an emblem of sorrow and gloom. 

The weeping willow, as being more grace- 
fully mournful, might very properly have 
claimed that attention which has been given 
to the common and plebeian members of its 
family; but the weeping” willow, while it 
has in this country fewer natural associa- 
tions, is burdened and robbed of its poetic 
character by a great number of such as are 
neither natural nor pleasing. Could we 
think of this elegant and picturesque tree 
only in its most appropriate situation, droop- 
ing over the tomb of Napoleon, or could we 
have beheld this tomb itself; without its in- 
finitely multiphed representations in poonah 
and every other kind of painting, we might 
then have enjoyed ideas and sensations con- 
nected with it of the most touching and ex- 
quisite nature. But, alas! our first failure 
in drawing has been upon the dangling 
boughs of the weeping willow; our first son- 
net has been addressed to this pathetic tree ; 
our first flourish in fancy neédle-work has 


ee 


depicted a white urn delicately stitched with 
shining silk, and long green threads sus- 


pended over it, in mockery of its drooping | 


branches. But above all, we have seen in 
the square ells of garden fronting those tall 


thin dwellings about town, where a squeezed |), 
and narrow neighbour jostles up on each || 
side, leaving just room enough for a tin ve-. 
randah, but no space to breathe or move, 
still less to think or feel;—we have seen, || 


laden with a summer’s dust, the countless 
little stunted weeping willows that throw 
aloft, as if in search of purer air, their slen- 
der, helpless arms, and would weep, if they 
could, yea, cry aloud, at this merciless mal- 
appropriation of their defenceless beauty. 
These impressions must therefore neces- 
sarily be obliterated, and others, less vulgar 
and profane, be deeply impressed upon the 


mind, before the weeping willow ean be es- || 
tablished in that rank which it deserves to |} 


hold amongst objects whose general asso- 
ciations are poetical.* 

Turning from the consideration of such 
trees as belong to the forest, the field, or the 
grove, to those which are reared and culti- 
vated for domestic purposes; we find, even 
here, a world of ideas and associations, 
which, if not highly poetical, are fraught 
with the satisfaction of home comforts, and 
the interest of local attachments. In tra- 
velling through a fertile country, thickly peo- 
pled, not with the haggard, rude, or care- 
less-looking labourers at the loom, but with 
a quiet and peaceful peasantry, whose de- 
light is in the gardens, the fields, and the 
flocks which their fathers tended before them, 
how beautiful, in the season of their blos-. 
som, are the numerous orchards, neatly 
fenced in, and studding the landscape all 


over with little islands of rich promise, where |} 
the brightest tints ofthe rose, and the fairest |} 


of the lily, mingle with odorous perfume in 
all the luxuriant profusion of nature! Again, 
when the harvest is over, and the golden 
fruit, perfected by a summer’s sun, is sus-_ 
pended in variegated clusters from every 
bough, how delightful is the contemplation 


*It is a fact now generally known, that the first weep- 
ing willow grown in England, was planted in Pope’s | 
garden at Twickenham, und is said to have been sent 
from Turkey, with a present from his friend, Lady Mary 
Wortley Montague 


| 
I 


1 


i a 8 SEE 


| 


their character. 


of that rural and picturesque scene !—how 
sweetly the ideas it presents to the mind are 
blended with our love of nature and natural 
enjoyments, and our gratitude for the boun- 
ty and goodness of a gracious Providence. 

Descending to the class of inferior trees, or 
rather plants, our poetical associations in- 
crease in proportion as these are more pic- 
turesque, graceful, or parasitical; and con- 
sequently, are more easily woven ihto the 
landscape, either real or imaginary, which 
forms the subject of contemplation. Amongst 
such, the common wild heath is by no means 
the least important; nor are we, on first con- 
sideration, aware for how large a propor- 
tion of our admiration of mountain scenery 
we are indebted to the rich purple hue which 
is thrown by this plant over the rugged sides 
of the hills, otherwise too cold and stony in 
their aspect to gratify the eye. With the 
idea of the heath we connect the path of the 
lonely traveller, or the silence of untrodden 
wilds; the haunt of the timid moor fowl, the 
hum of the wandering bee, or the gush of 
unseen water in the deep ravines of the 
mountains, working its way amongst the 
rocks, through moss, and fern, and matted 
weeds, until at length it sparkles up in the 
clear sun-shine, and then goes dancing, and 
leaping, yet ever murmuring, like a pleased 
but fretful child, on—on towards the bosom 
of the silent lake below. 

But above all other vegetable productions, 
neither trees nor flowers excepted, the ivy is 
perhaps the most poetical. And why? not 
merely because its leaves are “never sere,” 
nor because it hangs in fanciful festoons, 
glittering yet gloomy, playful yet sad; but 
because it\does what so few things in nature 
will do—it clings to, and beautifies the ruin 
—it shrinks not from the fallen column—it 
covers with its close embrace the rugged 
face of desolation, and conceals beneath its 
rich and shining mantle the ravages made 
by the hand of time—the wreck which the 
tempest has wrought. 

Besides this highly poetical idea, which 
forces itself upon every feeling mind, the ivy 
has other associations, deeply interesting in 
It requires so many years 
to bring it to the perfection necessary for 
those masses of foliage, and dark recesses 
of mysterious gloom, which its most pictu- 


— 


THE POETRY OF TREES. 


31 


resque form presents, that we naturally con- 
nect with this plant the ideas of solemnity 
which are awakened by reflecting on the 
awful lapse of time. The ivy, too, is chiefly 
seen upon the walls of religious houses, 
either perfect or ruinous, where its heavy 
clusters of matted leaves, with their deep 
shadow, afford a shelter and a hiding place 
for the bat and the owl, and, in the ideas of 
the irrational or the too imaginative, for 
other less-corporeal beings that flit about in 
the dusky hours of night. Thus, the ivy ac- 
quires a character of mystery and gloom, 
perhaps, even more poetical than that which 
strikes us when we sce its glittering sprays 
glancing in the clear light of day, or waving 
in the wind around the gray turrets of the 
ruin, and suggesting that simile which has 
been so frequently the poet’s theme, of light 
words and jocund smiles assumed by the 
broken-hearted to conceal the withering of 
the blighted soul. 

It would be useless to proceed farther 
with this minute examination of objects. to 
each of which a volume of relative ideas 
might be appropriated. A few examples 
are sufficient to prove, that with this class 
of natural productions, the great majority 
of minds are the same in their associations. 
Would it might prove something better than 
a mockery of the loveliness of nature, thus 
to examine its component parts, and ask 
why each is charming! Far more delight- 
ful would be the task of expatiating upon 
the whole, of roaming at will upon the hills 
and through thte woods, and embracing at 
one view, in one ecstatic thought, the un- 
speakable harmony which reigns through 
the creation. The pine, the oak, and the 
elm, may be magnificent in themselves— 
the willow, the heath, and the ivy, may each 
present a picture to the imagination; but 
what are these considered separately, com- 
pared with the ever-varying combination of 
form and colour, majesty and grace, pre- 
sented by the forest, or the woodland, the 
sloping banks of the river, or the leafy dell, 
where the round and the massive figures 
are broken by the spiral stem or the feathery 
foliage that trembles in the passing gale— 
where the hues that are most vivid, or most 
delicate, stand forth in clear contrast from the | 


— a a SS 
EE CT a 6 A, te SR 5 EE 


a a es eee nee aipepenennineesyeicieises: <ueeeeseeeee oon 


SSE SS SE BAAS 


1 


depths of sombre shade—where every pro- | 


i 


er renee mer mene en ee ee 


eee er Seen a — — 


32 ‘THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


jecting rock and rugged cleft is fringed 
with a curtain of green tracery, and every 
glassy stream reflects again, in its stainless 
mirror, the variety and the magnificence of 
the surrounding groves? Yet what are 
words to tell of the perfection of nature, the 
glories that lie scattered even in our daily 
path? And what are we, that we should 
pursue the sordid avocations of life without 
pausing to admire ? 

In order that the harmony of sweet sounds 
may be distinctly perceived and accommo- 
dated to the taste, there must be a peculiar 
formation of the human ear; nor is it possi- 
ble for the poetry of any object, even the 
most beautiful in nature, to be felt or under- 
stood without an answering chord in the 
human heart. There are many rational 
beings, worthy and estimable in their way, 
altogether insensible to the unseen or spirit- 
ual charm which lies in almost every subject 
of intellectual contemplation; who gaze 
upon the ivy-mantled ruin, and behold no- 
thing more than gray walls with a partial 
covering of green, like the man so aptly 
described by Wordsworth, when he says— 


“The primrose by the water’s brim, 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more.” 


But there are others, whether happier in 
this state of being it might not be easy to 
prove, but certainly more capable of intense 
and refined enjoyment, who, accustomed to 
live in a world of thought, and to derive 
their happiness from remote and impalpable 
essences of things, rather than from things 
themselves, cannot look on nature, nor be- 
hold any object with which poetical associa- 
tion holds the most distant connexion, but 
immediately a spark in the train of imagina- 
tion is kindled, and consciousness, memory, 
and anticipation, heap fuel on the living fire, 
which glows through the expansive soul. 

It is, still to speak figuratively, by the 
light of this fire, that they see what is im- 
perceptible to other eyes. They can disco- 
ver types and emblems in all created things ; 
and having received in their own minds 
deep and indelible impressions of beauty 
and harmony, majesty and awe, can recur 
to those impressions through the channels 
which external things afford, and draw from 


thence a never-failing idee of the ae. 
poetical enjoyment. 


THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. x 


WuiLe flowers, and trees, and plants in {i 
general afford an immense fant of interest 
to the contemplative beholder, the nae 
kingdom, yet scarcely touched upon in these 
pages, is, perhaps, equally fertile in poetical 
associations. From the reflections of the 
melancholy Jacques upon the wounded 
deer, down to the pretty nursery fable of | 
“ The Babes in the Wood,” the same natu- 
ral desire to associate with our own the 
habits and feelings of the more sensitive and 
amiable of the inferior animals is observa- 
ble, as well in the productions of the subli- 
mest, as the simplest poet. 

Burns’ “ Address to a Mouse,” proves to 
us with how much genuine pathos a familiar 
and ordinary subject may be invested. No 
mind which had never bathed in the fountain 
of poetry itself—whose remotest attributes 
had not been imbued with this ethereal prin- 
ciple as with a living fire, could have ven- 
tured upon such atheme. In common hands, 
a moral drawn from a mouse, and clothed in 
the language of verse, would have been 
little better than a burlesque, or a baby’s 
song at best; but in these beautiful and 
touching ee so perfect is the adaptation | 
of the language to the subiect—so evident, | 
without ostentation, the deep feeling of the 
bard himself, that the moral flows in with 
a natural pimiplinity which cannot fail to i 
charm the most fastidious reader. 

The lines in which Cowper describes him- | 


——_— ee 


self as a “ stricken deer,” are also affecting i in 
the extreme; but as my object is not to | 
quote fomtaneee but to examine why certain 
things are pre-eminently poetical, we will 
proceed to the considerations of a few indi- 
vidual subjects; first premising, that ani- 
mals obtain the character of being so in aj 
greater degree in proportion as we imagine 
them to possess such qualities as are most 
elevated or refined in ourselves, and in a less 
degree as we become familiarized with their 
because the majority of 


| 


ae 


FOE TS Tt 


badily functions : 


a 


et le te ee apne eet at nt ce 


a SNR eS 


| mer chapter. 


our ideas, in connexion with them, must then 


be of a gross material character, just as we 
may speak in poetry, of the “wild boar of 
the wilderness,” while the tame hog of the 
sty is a thing wholly forbidden. 

The elephant is allowed to be the most 
sagacious of the brute creation; but his 
sagacity is celebrated chiefly in anecdotes 
of trick and cunning, which qualities being 
the very reverse of what is elevated or no- 
ble in human nature, he possesses, in spite 
of his curious formation and majestic power, 
little claim to poetical interest. 

The dog very properly stands next in the 
scale of intellect; and so far as faithful at- 
tachment is a rare and beautiful trait in the 
character both of man and brute, the dog 


| may be said to be poetical; but we are too 
familiar with this animal to regard him with 


the reverence which his good qualities might 
seem to demand. We feed him on crusts 
and garbage; or wesee him hungered until 
he becomes greedy, and neglected until he 
becomes servile, and spurned until he threat- 
ens a vengeance which he dares not execute. 
The claims of the horse to the general 
admiration of mankind are too well under- 
stood to need our notice here, especially as 
they have already been examined in a for- 
To the horse belong no as- 
sociations with ideas of what is gross or 
mean. His most striking attribute is power; 
and the ardour with which he enters into the 
excitement of the chase, or the battle, gives 
him a character so nearly approaching to 
what is most admired in the human species, 
that the ancients delighted to represent this 
noble animal, not as he is, but with distend- 
ed nostrils, indicating a courage almost 
more than animal, with eyes animated with 
mental as well as physical energy, and with 
the broad intellectual forehead of a man. 
The ass is certainly less poetical than pic- 
turesque ; but, still, it is poetical in its pa- 
tient endurance of suffering, in its associa- 
tion with the wandering outcasts from society 
whose tents are in the wilderness, and whose 
“ lodging is on the cold ground,” in its hum- 
ble appetites, and in its unrepining submis- 
sion to the most abject degradation. Let us 
hope that the patience of the ass arises from 
its own insensibility, and that its sufferings, 
though frequent, are attended with little 


3 


THE POETRY 


OF ANIMALS. 33 


acuteness of sensation; but they are suffer- 
ings still, borne with a meekness that looks so 
much like the Christian virtue, resignation, 
that, in contemplating the hard condition of 
this degraded animal, the heart is softened 


with feelings of sorrow and compassion, and | 


we long to rescue it from the yoke of the 
oppressor. , 


I have often thought there was something | 


peculiarly affecting in the character of the 
young ass—something almost saddening to 
the soul, in its sudden starts of short-lived 
frolic. In its appearance there is a strange 
unnatural mixture of infant glee, with a 
mournful and almost venerable gravity. Its 
long melancholy ears are in perfect contrast 
with its innocent and happy face. It seems 


to have heard, what is seldom heard in ex- 
treme youth, the sad forebodings of its latter 


days; and when it crops the thistle, and 
sports among the briers, it appears to be 
with the vain hope of carrying the spirit of 
joy along with it, through the after vicissi- 
tudes of its hard and bitter lot. 

The cow is poetical, not from any quality 
inherent, or even imagined to be inherent in 
itself, but from its invariable association 
with rich pastures and verdant meadows, 
and as an almost indispensable ornament to 
pictures of quiet rural scenery. Time was 
when the cow was poetical from her associ- 


_ation with rosy maidens tripping over the 


dewy lawn, and village swains tuning the 
rustic reed; but since the high magnifier of 
modern investigation has been applied to 
pastoral subjects, milkmaids have been pro- 
nounced to be too homely for the poet’s 
theme ; village swains have been detected in 
fustian garments ; and both, with their flocks, 
and their herds, and with pastoral poetry 
altogether, have been dismissed from the 
theatre of intellectual entertainment. 
Nothing, however, that has yet been eflect- 
ed by the various changes to which taste is 
liable, has destroyed the poetical character 
of the deer. Our associations with the deer 
are far removed from every thing gross or 
familiar ; we think of it only as a free deni- 
zen of the woods, swift in its movements, 


_graceful in its elastic step, delicate in all its 


perceptions, and tremblingly alive to the 
dangers which threaten it on every hand. 
We imagine it retiring from the broad clear 


ne A RR A ETE 


nr ne enn onnnnnennnnne 


L 


light of day, into the seclusion of the moun- 
tain glen; stooping in silence and solitude 
| to drink of the pure waters in their bubbling 
,, and melodious flow; gazing on through the 
| rocky defile, or in amongst the weedy hol- 
lows on the banks of the stream, with its 
clear calm eye, that looks too full of love 
and tenderness to be betrayed, yet ever 
watchful, from an instinctive sense of the 
| multiplied calamities which assail the inno- 
1, cent and helpless; listening to the slightest 
sound of earth or air, the rustling of the 
spray that springs back from the foot of the 
fairy songster, or the fall of the leaf that 
flickers from bough to bough; and then—as 
the zephyr swells, and the gathering breeze 
comes like a voice through the leafy depths 
of the forest—bounding over the mossy turf, 
| and away along the sides of the mountain— 
away to join the browsing herd, and give 
them intelligence of an approaching, but 
unseen foe. Or, when the chase is ended, 
| and the wounded deer returns to pant away 
|| its parting breath in the same glen where it 
gambolled upon the dewy grass, a careless 
and sportive fawn, he comes back with wea- 
ry foot and bleeding bosom, to slake his 
burning thirst in the same fountain where so 
1! often he has bathed his vigorous and elastic 
limbs. The woods are still peaceful, the 
| birds sing on, regardless of his groans, the 
stream receives the life-blood from his wound, 
his brethren of the faithless herd again are 
browsing on the distant hills, and alone in 
his mortal agony he weeps and dies. 

But of all-the animal creation, birds have 
ever been the poet’s favourite theme. In 
the beauty of their form and plumage, in 
their soaring flight, in their sensitiveness 
and timidity, and in the lightness and vivid- 
ness of their movements, there is something 
to our conceptions so intimately connected 
with spirituality, that we can readily sym- 
pathize with the propensity of the imagina- 
tive, to imbody, in these gentle and ethereal 
beings, the souls of their departed friends ; 
and of the superstitious, to regard them as 
winged messengers laden with the irrevoca- 
ble decrees of an oracular fate. 

It is a curious fact, that, in our ideal per- 
sonifications of angelic forms, we do not per- 
ceive that they lose any thing of their intel- 
lectual or celestial character, by having 


THE POETRY OF LIFE > 


| of a whole life are lost. 


Whether, from this association, we have 
learned to consider birds as less material 
than other animals, or whether, from the 
aerial flight of birds, the artist and the poet 
have learned to represent angelic beings as 
borne along the fields of air on feathery |! 
wings, it is certain that the capacity of flight 
loses none of its poetical sublimity and grace, |; 
by being connected in our notions with the |; 
only means of which we have any know- |; 
ledge. | i 
Birds, in their partiality for the haunts of 
man, offer a striking appeal to the sensitive 
and benevolent mind. Why should they 
cast themselves into the path of the destroy- 
er, or expose their frail habitations to the 
grasp of his unsparing hand? Is it that 
they feel some “ inly touch of love” for their 
imperious master, or that they seek from | 
his power what his mercy too often denies ? 
or would they ask, in the day of their dis- |; 
tress, for the sparings of his plenty, and pay | 
| 
1 
| 


appended to them the entire wings of a bird. | 


him back with the rich melody of their sum- 
mer songs? Whatever may be the cause, 
they flock around him, as if the manly pri- 
vilege of destruction had never been exer- 
cised upon their defenceless community. 
Yet, mark how well they know the nature 
of creation’s lord.. They tremble at his 
coming, they flutter in his grasp, they look 
askance upon him from the bough, they re- 
gard him with perpetual suspicion, and, || 
above all, some of their species will forsake |! 
their beloved and carefully constructed hab- 
itations, if he has but profaned them with 
his touch. It can be no want of parental 
affection which drives them to this unnatural || 
alternative, for how diligently have they 
toiled, with what exquisite ingenuity have | 
they constructed their children’s home, how | 
faithfully have they watched, how patiently | 
have they waited for the fulfilment of their 
hopes! Yet, in one fatal moment, the silk- 
en cord that. strung together their secret 
joys is broken. Another spring may renew 
their labours and their loves, but they know 
it not. ‘Their all was centred in that narrow 
point, and to them the hopes and the labours 
The delicacy of per- 
ception which enables them to detect the 
slightest intrusion upon the sacred mysteries 
of their nest, gives them a character of 


THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. 


acuteness and sensibility far beyond that 


| of other animals; and it is a wonderful and 
| mysterious instinct which makes them resign 
| all they have loved and cherished, even 
| when no change is perceptible to other eyes, 


and when it is certain that no injury has 
been sustained. It is a refinement upon 
feeling, which strikes the imagination with a 


| strong resemblance to some of those mal- 


occurrences in human life, which divert the 
inner channel of the thoughts and affections, 
without the superficial observer being 
aware of any change—those lamentable en- 
croachments upon the sacredness of domes- 
tic confidence, which, by a word—a look—a 
touch, may at once destroy the blessedness 


of that union, which is nothing better than 


a degrading bond after the spell of its secret 
charm is broken. 

The nightingale, whose charmed lays 
have a two-fold glory in their native melody, 
and in the poet’s song, claims unquestion- 
ably the first place in our consideration ; 
though I own Iam much disposed to think 
that this bird owes half its celebrity to* the 
circumstance of its singing in the night, 
when the visionary, wrapped in the mantle 
of deep thought, wanders forth to gaze upon 
the stars, and to court the refreshment of 
silence anc solitude. It is then that the 
voice of the nightingale thrills upon his ear, 
and he feels that a kindred spirit is awake, 
perhaps, like him, to sweet remembrances, 
to sorrows too deep for tears, and joys for 
which music alone can find a voice. He 
listens, and the ever-varying melody rises 
and falls upon the. wandering wind—he 
pines for some spiritual communion with 
this unseen being—he longs to ask why 
sleep is banished from a breast so tuned to 
harmony—joy, and joy alone, it cannot be, 
which inspires that solitary lay; no, there 
are tones of tenderness too much like grief, 
and is not grief the bond of fellowship by 
which impassioned souls are held together ? 
Thus, the nightingale pours upon the heart 
of the poet, strains which thrill with those 
sensations that have given pathos to his 
muse, and he pays her back by celebrating 


| her midnight minstrelsy in song. 


The skylark is, of all the feathered tribe, 
most invariably associated with ideas of rap- 
turous, pure, and elevated enjoyment; such 


35 


as we ourselves had glimpses of in early 
life, when the animal excitement of childhood, 
mingling with the first bright dawnings 6f 
reason, lifted us high into the regions of 
thought, and taught us to spurn at the harsh 
discipline of real life. From flights such as 
these we have so often fallen prone upon the 


earth, that they have ceased to tempt our 


full-fledged powers, and even if the brillian- 
cy of thought remained to lure us on, the 
animal stimulus would be wanting, and we 
should be conscious of our utter inability on 
the first attempt to soar again. But the 
memory of this ecstatic feeling still remains, 
and when we think of the aspirations of pu- 
rified and happy spirits, we compare them 
to the upward flight of the lark, or to the 
boundings of that innocent joy which we our- 
selves have felt, but feel nomore. And then 
there is the glad voice of the lark, that 
spring of perpetual freshness, pouring forth 
its untiring and inexhaustible melody. 


. 
“ Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.” 


Who ever listened to this voice on a clear 
spring morning, when nature was first rising 
from her wintry bed, when the furze was 
in bloom, and the lambs at play, and the 
primrose and the violet scented the de- 
licious south wind that came with the glad 
tidings of renovated life—who-ever listened 
to the song of the lark on such a morning, 
while the dew was upon the grass, and the 
sun was smiling through a cloudless sky, 


without feeling that the spirit of joy was still | 


alive within, around, and above him, and 
that those wild and happy strains, floating 
in softened-melody upon the scented air, 
were the outpourings of a gratitude too rap- 
turous for words 2 
Nor is it the vocal power of birds which 
gives us the highest idea of their intellectual 
capacity. Their periodical visitations of par- 


ticular regions of the globe, and the punctu- |! 
ality with which they go forth on their mys- || 


terious passage at particular seasons of the 
year, form, perhaps, the most wonderful pro- 
pensity in their nature. It is true that in- 


stinct is the spring of their actions, and it is 
possible that they are themselves uncon- 
scious of any motive or reason for the impor- 
tant change which instinct induces them to 
make; but in speaking of the poetry of birds, 


A 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. ° 


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I wish to be understood to refer to the zdeas 
which their habits naturally excite, not to 
tlfe facts which they elicit. We know that 
birds are by no means distinguished, above 
other animals by their intellectual capacity, 
but so wonderful, so far beyond our compre- 
hension, is the instinct exhibited in their 
transient lives, that instead of having al- 
ways in mind the providential scheme which 
provides for the wants and wishes even of 
the meanest insect, we are apt to indulge 
our imaginations by attaching to the winged 
wanderers of the air, vazue yet poetical 
ideas of their own mental endowments, and 
half believe them to be actuated by a delica- 
cy of sense and feeling, in many cases supe- 
rior to our own. Whether this belief, with 
which the minds of children are so strongly 
imbued, and which lingers about us long 
after we have become acquainted with its 
fallacy, be any bar to the progress of philo- 
sophical knowledge, I am not prepared to 
say; but certainly it is the very essence of 
poetical feeling; and for one visionary who 
would scruple to kill a bird for dissection 
because it had been the companion of his 
woodland walks, there will remain to bea 
thousand practical men who would care lit- 
tle what strains had issued from that throat, 
if they could but ascertain how the throat 
itself was constructed. It is precisely the 
same principle which inspires us with the 
sublimest ideas of the majesty of the uni- 
verse, by imbodying in the stars, the moun- 
tains, the ocean, or the pealing thunder, 
some unseen, but power!ul inteHtigence, that 
offers for our enjoyment a never-ending com- 
panionship in the woods and wilds, through 
an ideal personification of every thing sweet 
and fair. It is this principle which makes 
us hail the periodical return of certain birds, 
as if they had been thinking of us, and of 
our fields and gardens, in that far distant 
land, of which they tell no tidings; and, 
taking into consideration the changes of the 
seasons, had consulted upon the best means 
of escaping the dangers of the threatening 
storm: as if they had spread their feeble 
wings to bear them over the wide waste of 
inhospitable waters from the energy of their 
own hearts, and had come back to us from 
their own unchangeable and fervent love. 

If it be poetry to gaze upon the mighty 


ocean with that strange, deep wonder with 
which we regard the manifestations of a 
mysterious, but concentrated and individual 
power—to feel that he stretches his unfath- 
omable expanse from pole to pole—that he 
ruffles his foaming mane and rushes bellow- 
ing upon the circling shore—or that he lies 
slumbering in his silent glory, beneath the 
blaze of our meridian sun, and through the 
still midnight of the island gardens that gem 
the South Pacific; it is not less in unison 
with poetic feeling, nor less productive of 
ecstatic thought, to personify the trees, and 
the flowers, and the rippling streams, and to 
welcome with gratitude the fairy forms and 
glad voices that come to tell us of returning 
spring. 


Who that has tasted the delights of poetry, | 


would be deprived of this power of the im- 
agination to people the air and animate the 
whole creation? Let the critic smile—let 
the tradesman count his pence, and reckon 
up how little imagination has ever added to 
his store—let the modern philosopher exam- 


ine the leaf} and the flower, and the bird’s : 


wing, and pronounce them equally material 
and devoid-of mind—let the good man say 


that poetry is a vain pursuit, and that these ! 


things are not worthy of our regard; I main- 
tain that these notions, visionary as they are, 
tend to innocent enjoyment, and that inno- 
cent enjoyment is not a vain pursuit, because 
it may, and ought to inspire us with love 


and gratitude towards Him who has not | 


only given us a glorious creation to enjoy, 
but faculties to enjoy it with, and imagina- 
tion to make the most of it. | 


With the swallow we associate the ever- |: 


cheering idea of returning summer. We 
watch for its coming, and rejoice to hear the 
merry twittering voice, that seems to tell of 
a life of innocent and careless glee—an ex- 
istence unruffled by a storm. As the sum- 
mer advances, and we seek shelter from the 
noon-day heat in the deep shade of the leafy 
boughs that wave around the margin of the 


glassy stream, it is here that the swallow is |; 


not unfrequently our sole companion ; and 
ever as we call to remembrance its swift yet 
graceful flight, we picture it darting from 
the pendent branches of the willow, stooping 
to cool its arrowy wing upon the surface of 


the glancing waters, and then away, swifter |! 


than thought, into mid air, to sport one mo- 
ment with aerial beings. Again it sweeps 
in silence past our feet, over the spiral reeds, 
around, above us, gliding through the shad- 
ows, and flickering through the sunshine; 
but never resting, and yet never weary ; for 
the spirit than animates its bounding bosom, 
and stretches forth its giddy wing, is one 
that knows no sleep until light has vanished 
from the world, no sadness until the sweets 
of summer are exhausted. And then arises 
that vague mysterious longing for a milder 
sphere—that irrepressible energy to do and 
dare what to mere reason would appear im- 
practicable; and forth it launches with its 
faithful companions, true to the appointed 
time, upon the boundless ocean of infinitude, 
trusting to it knows not what, yet trusting still. 

With the cuckoo, our associations are in 
some respects the same as with the swallow, 
except that we are in the habit of regarding 
it simply as a voice; and what a voice! 
How calm, and clear, and rich! How full 
of all that can be told of the endless profu- 
sion of summer’s charms !—of the hawthorn, 
in its scented bloom, of the blossoms of the 
apple, and the silvery waving of the fresh 
ereen corn, of the cowslip in the meadow, 
and the wild rose by the woodland path; 
and last, but not least in its poetical beauty, 
of the springing up of the meek-eyed daisy, 
to welcome the foot of the traveller, upon 
the soft and grassy turf. | 

Above all other birds, the dove is most in- 
timately and familiarly associated in our 
minds with ideas of the quiet seclusion of 
rural life, and the enjoyment of peace and 
love. This simple bird, by no means re- 
markable for its sagacity, so soft in its co- 
louring, and graceful in its form, that we 
cannot behold it without being conscious of 
its perfect loveliness, is in some instances 
endowed with an extraordinary instinct, 
which adds greatly to its poetical interest. 
That species called the carrier pigeon, has 
‘| often been celebrated for the faithfulness 
i| with which it pursues its mysterious way, 
but never more beautifully than in the fol- 
lowing lines by Moore. 


“The bird let loose in eastern skies, 
When hastening fondly home, 
Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, or flies 
Where idler wanderers roum ; 


THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. 


3 


But high she shoots through air and light, 
Above all low delay, 

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 
Or shadow dims her way. 


So grant me, God, from every stain 
Of sinful passion free, 

Aloft through virtue’s purer air, 
To steer my flight to thee! 


No sin to cloud, no lure to stay, 
My soul, as home she springs, 

Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 
Thy freedom on her wings.” 


But neither the wonderful instinct of this 
undeviating messenger, nor even the classi- 
cal association of the two white doves with 
the queen of love and beauty, are more |} 
powerful in awakening poetical ideas than 
the simple cooing of our own wood pigeon, 
heard sometimes in the silent solemnity of 
summer’s noon, when there is no other sound 
but the hum of the wandering bee, as he 
comes laden and rejoicing home, when the 
sun is alone in the heavens, and the cattle 
are sleeping in the shade, and not a single 
breath of air is whispering through the 
boughs, and the deep dark shadows of the 
elm and the sycamore lie motionless upon 
the earth—or, in the cool evening, when the 
shadows, less distinct, are lengthened out 
upon the lawn, and the golden west is ting- 
ing here and there the bright green foliage 
with a brighter hue, when the shepherd is 
numbering his flock, and the labourer is re- 
turning to his rest, it is then that the soft 
sweet cooing of the dove, bursting forth, as 
it were, from the pure fount of love and joy 
within its breast, sounds like the lullaby of 
nature, and diffuses over the mind that holy 
calm which belongs to our best and happiest 
feelings. 

From the timid moor cock, the “ whirring 
partridge,” and the shy water fowl that 


scarcely dares to plume its beauteous wing in |j* 


the moonlight of our autumnal evening, when 
the floods are high, and the wind rushes 
whispering through the long sere grass, jj 
down to the russet wren that looks so grave- 
ly conscious of the proprieties of life, there is 
scarcely one class of the feathered tribe to 
which imagination does not readily and 
naturally assign an intellectual, or rather a 
moral character, associating it with feelings 
and capabilities, of which the little flutterer 
is (perhaps happily for itself) unconscious. 


mela 


\ 
, 


The peacock is a striking ilustration of this 
fact. The beauty of his plumage is in all 
probability lost upon him, yet because it con- 
sists of that rich and gaudy colouring, which 
is consistent with our notions of what vanity 
delights in, and because the lengthened 
garniture of his tail requires that for conve- 
|| nience and repose he should often place 
| himself in an elevated situation, he has ob- 
tained a character which there is little in his 
| real nature to justify, and as an emblem of 
pride, is placed by the side of Juno in her 
regal dignity. This tendency of the mind 
to throw over sensible objects a colouring of 
its own, is also proved by the character 
which mankind have bestowed upon the 
|| robin redbreast, in reality a jealous, quarrel- 
‘| some, and unamiable bird; yet such is the 
‘| unobtrusive and meek beauty of its little 
form, the touching pathos of its “ still small 
voice,” and the appeals it seems ever to be 
making to the kindness and protection of 
man, that the poet perpetually speaks of the 
robin with tenderness and love, and even 
the rude ravager of the woods spares a 
breast so lovely, and so full of simple melody. 
Birds as well as other animals, owe much 
of their poetical interest to the fabulous part 
of their history; thus, the pelican is said to 
feed her young with the life-blood flowing 
from her own bosom, and this unnatural act 
| of maternal affection is quoted by the poet 
'| as a favourite simile for self-devotion under 
various forms. Of the swan itis said and 
‘| sung, that in dying she breathes forth a 
| strain of plaintive song; but even without 
| this poetical fable, the swan ‘is associated 
with so much that is graceful and lovely, 
that we cannot think of this majestic queen 
|| of the water, sailing forth like a snow-white 
‘| gallery on the silver tide, without losing our- 
|| selves in a romantic dream of lakes and ri- 
: vers, and that sylvan scenery which the 
|| Swan is known to frequent. ! 
|| We have yet given our attention only to 
those birds whose nature and habits are pro- 
| 


o~ 


ductive of pleasing associations. There are 

others no less poetical, whose home is in the 

desert or the mountain, whose life is in the 

storm or on the field of carnage; and it is to 
these especially that fabulous history has 

|| given importance and celebrity. 

| For its mysterious and gloomy character, 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


the owl is particularly distinguished ; and 
such is the grave aspect of its countenance, 
so nearly resembling the human face in the 
traits which are considered as indicative of 
sagacity and earnest thought, that the an- 
cients dignified this bird by making it the 
emblem of wisdom, though there seems to 
be little in its real nature to merit such exal- 
tation. From the extreme timidity of the 
owl, and its habitual concealment from the 
light of day, it is difficult to become familiar 
with its character. We see it sailing forth 
on expanded wings in the gray twilight of 
the evening, when other birds have retired 
to their nightly rest; or we behold it in the 
distance a misty speck, half light, half sha- 
dow, just visible in the same proportion, and 
with the same obscurity of outline and co- 
lour, as in our infancy we fancied that spiri- 
tual beings from another world made them- 
selves perceptible in this. Besides which, 
the voice of the owl, as it comes shrieking on 
the midnight blast, and its mysterious breath- 
ings, half sighs, half whispers, heard 
amongst the ivy wreaths of the ruin, all tend 
to give to this bird a character of sadness, 
solemnity and awe. 

The raven, strikingly sagacious and ven- 
erable in its appearance, is still believed by 
the superstitious to be a bird of ill omen; 
and much as we may be disposed to despise 
such prognostications as the flight, or the 
cry of diflerent birds, there is something in | 
the habits, but especially in the voice of the 
raven, which gives it a strange and almost 
fearful character. It seems to hold no com- 
munion with the joyous spirits, to have no 
association with the happy scenes of earth; 
but leads a lengthened and unsocial life 
amongst the gloomy shades of the venera- 
ble forest, in the deep recesses of the path- 
less mountain, or on the rocky summit of the 
beetling crag that overlooks the ocean’s blue 
abyss; and when it goes forth, with its sa- 
ble pinions spread like the wings of a dark 
angel upon the wind, its hoarse and hollow 
croak echoes from rock to rock, as if telling, 
in those dreary and appalling tones, of the 
fleshy feast to which it is hastening, of the 
death-pangs of the mountain deer, of the 
cry of the perishing kid, and of the bones of 
the shipwrecked seaman whitening in the 
surge. { 


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THE POETRY 


To the eagle mankind have agreed in as- 
signing a sort of regal character, from the 
majesty of his bearing, and the proud pre- 
eminence he maintains amongst the fea- 
thered tribe; from the sublimity of his 
chosen home, far above the haunts of man 
and meaner animals, from the self-seclusion 
in which he holds himself apart from the 
general association of living and familiar 
things, and from the beauty and splendour 
of his sagacious eye, which shrinks not from 
the dazzling glare of the sun itself. Innu- 
merable are the fables founded upon the pe- 
culiar habits of this bird, all tending to ex- 
alt him in the scale of moral and intellectual 
importance ; but to the distinction conferred 
upon him by the ancients when they raised 
him to a companionship with Jove, is mainly 
to be attributed the poetical interest with 
which his character is universally invested. 

There are many birds whose peculiar 
haunts and habits render them no less useful 
to the painter than the poet, by adding to 
the pictorial effect of his landscape. In the 
sheet of crystal water which skirts the no- 
bleman’s domain, and widens in front of his 
eastellated halls, we see the stately swan; 
on the shady margin of the quiet stream, 
imbosomed in a copes-wood forest, the shy 
water hen; the jackdaw on the old gray 
steeple of the village church; and a com- 
pany of rooks winging their social way, 
wherever the scenery is of a peaceful, culti- 
vated, or rural character. By these means 
our inimitable Turner delights to give his 
pictures their highly poetical character. The 
heron is one of his favorite birds, and when 
it stands motionless and solitary upon a bro- 
ken fragment of dark rock, looking down 
into the clear deep water, with that imper- 
turbable aspect of never-ending melancholy 
which marks it out as a fit accompaniment 
of wild and secluded scenery, we feel almost 
as if the genius of the place were personi- 
fied before us, and silent, and lonely, and 
unfrequented as these wilds may be, that 
there is at least one spirit which finds com- 
panionship in their solitude. 

But above all other birds, the seagull, as 
it diversifies the otherwise monotonous as- 
pect of the ocean, is an essential accompani- 
ment to every representation of a sea view. 
Had the colour of this bird been red or yellow, 


OF ANIMALS. 39 


or almost any other than whatit is, it would 
have broken the harmony of the picture; 
but its breast is of the form of the ocean 
waves, and the misty hue of its darker plu- 
mage is like the blending of the vapoury 
clouds with the cold blue of the deep sea 
below. Not only in its colouring, but in the 
wild gracefulness of its movements, in its 
shrill ery, in its swift and circling flight, and 
in the reckless freedom with which it sails 
above the drear abyss, its dark shadow re- 
flected in the hollow of the concave waters, 
and its white plumage flashing like a gleam 
of light, or like the ocean spray, from rock to 
rock, it assimilates so entirely with the whole 
character of the scene, that we look upon it 
as a living atom separated from the troubled 
and chaotic elements, a personification of the 
spirit of the storm, a combination of its foam 
and its darkness, its light and its depth, its 
swittness and its profound solemnity. 
Inferior to birds in their pictorial beauty, 
though scarcely less conducive to poetical 
interest, are the various tribes of insects that 
people the earth and animate the air; but 
before turning our attention to these, it may 
be well to think for a moment in what man- 
ner the poet’s imagination is affected by 
fishes and reptiles. Of the poetry of fishes 
little can be said. Two kinds only occur to 


me as being familiar in the language of’ 


poetry, and conducive to its figurative charm 
—the flying fish and the dolphin. - The for- 
mer, in its transient and feeble flight, has 
been made the subject of some beautiful 
lines by Moore; and because of the perpe- 
tual dangers which await it from innumera- 
ble enemies, both in sea and air, it is often 
adopted as a simile for the helpless and per- 
secuted children of earth; while the dol- 
phin, from the beauty of its form, and the 
gorgeous colours which are said to be pro- 
duced by its last agonies, is celebrated in the 
poet’s lay as an emblem of the glory which 
shines most conspicuously in the hour of 
death. 


its 


parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour, as it gasps away: 
The last still loveliest, till,—’tis gone—and all is gray !”” 
BYRON. 


In fearful pre-eminence amongst those 
animals commonly considered repulsive and 


40 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


degraded, is the serpent, whose history is | and diffusing poison—the locust, whose 
unavoidably associated with the introduc- | plagues are often commemorated—the hor- 
tion of sin and sorrow into the world. Whe- | net, to whose stings Milton describes Samson 
ther from this association, or from an instinc- | as comparing the accumulated agony of his 
tive horror of its “venomous tooth,” it is} own restless thoughts—the glow-worm, 
certain that the serpent is more generally | whose feeble light is like a fairy star, beam- 
dreaded, and more loathed, even by those | ing upward from a world upon which all 
who do not fear it, than any other living thing; | other stars look down—and the canker- 
and yet how beautiful is its sagacious eye, | worm, whose fatal ravages destroy the 
how rich and splendid its colouring, how | bloom of youth, and render void the pro- 
delicate the tracery of net-work thrown all | digality of summer—passing over all these 
over its glossy scales, how graceful and easy | and many more, in which we recognise the 
its meandering movements, as it winds itself | familiar companions of the poet, we turn our 
in amongst the rustling grass, how much | attention to the butterfly and the meth, as 
like one of the fairest objects in nature, a | being most associated with refined and 
clear blue river wandering through a distant | agreeable ideas. 

valley! Yet all these claims to beauty, The butterfly is like a spiritual attendant 
which the serpent unquestionably possesses, | upon the poet’s path, whether he dreams of 
entitle it the more to the contempt and ab- | it as an emblem of the soul, fluttering around 
horrence of mankind, by obtaining for it the | the fair form of Psyche, or beholds it in no 
character of insinuating guile, which the | less beautiful reality, sporting from flower to 
allurements it is recorded to have practised | flower, and teaching him the highest intel- 


: 


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nr Re een 


upon our first mother seem fully to confirm. 

The toad, save for the “ precious jewel in 
his head,” can scarcely be called poetical, 
though not unfrequenty found in verse as a 
striking similitude for the extreme of ugliness, 


lectual lesson—to gather sweets from all. 
We are apt in our childhood to delight in 
the legendary tales of fairy people inhabit- 
ing the groves, the gardens, or the fields, 
and regard with an interest almost supersti- 


as well asfor a despicable proneness to grovel | tious, that mysterious circle of dark green 
in what is earthly and most abhorrent to our | verdure that remains from year to year 
finer feelings, from its frequenting low, | marking the enchanted spot, where once 
damp, unwholesome places, the banks of | they were believed to hold their midnight 
stagnant pools, or the nettles and lone grass | revels. Butterflies, in their exquisite colour- 
that wave over the gloomy and untrodden | ing, their airy movements, and ephemeral 
ground where the dead lie sleeping in their | lives, exhibit to the imaginative beholder no 


silent rest. 
The snail has certainly no strong claims 
to poetical merit; yet we often find it serv- 


has of carrying about its home, into which it 


poet’s regard, because of its utter degrada- 
tion, and the circumstance of its being 


’] 


of resistance or revenge. 
Passing slightly over the multitudinous 
family of insects, we leave the beetle to his 


slight resemblance to these ideal beings, as 
they glide through the scented atmosphere 
of the parterre, nestle in the velvet leaves 


ing the purpose of simile and illustration, | of the rose, or touch without soiling the 
from its tardy movements, and the faculty it | snowy bosom of the lily. 


The butterfly is also strikingly emblemat- 


shrinks on the first touch of the enemy. And | ical of that delicacy which shrinks from 
even the lowly worm has some title to the | communion with all that is rude or base. 


Touch but its gorgeous wings, and their 


of | beauty falls away—immure the woodland 
all living things, most liable to injury, at the | wanderer in captivity, and it pines and dies 
same time that it is one of the least capable | —let the breath of the storm pass over it, 


and in an instant it perishes. 
The moth is less splendidly beautiful than 
the butterfly. It has a graver character, 


from his opposite qualities of collecting honey | Supported by the same slight thread of life, | 


evening flight—the grasshopper, whose | and:sceks neither the sunshine nor the flow- 
merry chirp enlivens the wayside traveller | ers of summer; yet it is liable to be de- 
—the bee, perhaps the most poetical of any, | stroyed by the same degree of violence. 


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‘THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. 41 


and scarcely perceptible amongst the even- | conveying the following severe, yet just re-. 


ing shadows, except as an animated speck 
of moving mist, it yet possesses one striking 
characteristic, of which the poet fails not to 
avail himself—a tendency to seek the light, 
even when that light must prove fatal to its 
own existence. How many poetical ideas 
has this simple tendency excited! But 
enough on this fertile theme. The reader 
will doubtless be better pleased to examine 
the subject farther for himself, than to have 
additional instances of the poetry of animals 
placed before his view. 

It is sufficient to add, in continuation of 
this subject, that without allowing ourselves 
time and opportunity to study the nature and 
habits of animals, we can never really feel 
that they constitute an important part of the 
world which we inhabit. We may read of 
them in books, and even be able to class 
them according to their names and the ge- 
nera to which they belong, but they will not 
enter into our hearts as members of the 
brotherhood of nature, claiming kindred 
with ourselves, and entitled to our tender- 
ness and love. Those who have known this 
fellowship in early life will never lose the re- 
membrance of it to their latest day, but will 
continue to derive from it refreshment and 
joy, even as they tread the weary paths that 
lead through the dark passage of a sordid 
and troubled existence. The difference be- 
tween those who study nature for them- 
selves, and those who only read of it in 
books, is much the same as between those 
who travel, and those who make themselves 
acquainted with the situation of different 
countries upon a map. The mind of the tra- 
veller is stored with associations of a moral 
and intellectual character, which no map 
can suggest; and he who occasionally re- 
signs his soul to the genuine influence of 
nature as it is seen and felt in the external 
world, will lay up a rich store of deep and 
precious thought, to be referred to for amuse- 
ment and consolation through the whole of 
his after life. 

Had Pope, our immortal poet, not culti- 
vated this intimate and familiar acquaint- 
ance with the nature and habits of animals, 


‘| he would never have thought them of suffi- 


cient importance to be made instrumental in 


‘““Has God, thou fool! work’d solely for thy good ! 
Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ! 
Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 

For him as kindly spreads the flow’ry lawn. 

Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 

Joy tnnes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 

Is it for thee the linnet pours his thrvat ? 

Loves of his own, and raptures, swell the note. 
The bounding steed you pompously bestride, 
Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain 2 
The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain, 
Thine the full harvest of the golden year 2 

Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer.” 


proof to man. 


AscENDING in the scale of poetical inter- 
est, the seasons might not improperly oc- 
cupy the next place in our regard, had they 
not already been especially the theme of one 
of our ablest poets. ‘To describe the feelings 
which the seasons in their constant revolu- 
tions, are calculated to excite, would there- 
fore only be to recapitulate the language 
and insult the memory of Thomson. There 
is one circumstance, however, connected | 
with this subject which demands a mo- | 


THE POETRY OF EVENING. 


ment’s attention here. It is the preference 
for certain seasons of the year evinced by 
different persons, according to the tone or 
temperament of their own minds. ‘There 
are many tests by which human character 
may be tried. In answezing the simple 
question, “which is your favourite season ?” 
we often betray more than we are aware of 
at the time, of the nature of our own feelings ° 
and character. It is no stretch of imagina- 
tion to believe, certainly no misstatement of 
fact to say, that the young and the innocent 
(or the good, who resemble both) almost in-. 
variably make choice of spring as their fa- 
vourite season of the year; while the natu- 
rally morbid and melancholy, or those who 
have made themselves so by the misuse of 
their best faculties, as invariably choose 
autumn. Why so few make choice of sum- 
mer is not easy to say, unless the oppressive 
sense of heat is too powerful in its influence 
upon the body to allow the mind to receive 


a NT TE SS 


42 


any deeply pleasurable sensations, or be- 
cause during the summer there is such a 
constant springing up of beauty, such an un- 
ceasing supply of vigour in the animal and 
vegetable world, that our ideas of spring are 
carried on until the commencement of 
autumn. There are a still smaller number 
of individuals who venture to say they love 
the dark days of winter, because, in order to 
find our greatest enjoyment in this season, 
we must possess a fund of almost uninter- 
rupted domestic happiness, and few there 
are who can boast of this inestimable bless- 
ing ; few indeed who, when thrown entirely 
upon the resources which their own hearts, 
their own homes, or their own families af- 
ford, do not sometimes wish to escape, if only 
to enjoy the refreshment of green fields, free 
air, and sunny skies. 

The good and the happy, the young and 
the innocent, whose hearts are full of hope, 
find peculiar gratification in the rich pro- 
mise of spring, in the growth and perfection 
of plants, the rejoicing of the animal creation, 
and the renovated beauty of universal na- 
ture. There is within themselves a kind of 
sympathy, by which they become a part of 
the harmonious whole, a grateful trust 
which accords with this promise, a springing 
up and growth of joyful expectation which 
keeps pace with the general progress of the 
natural world, and echoes back a soul-felt re- 
sponse to the voice which tells of happiness. 

How different in all, except their power 
over the feelings, are the sympathies which 
are called forth’ by the contemplation of 
autumn! The beauty or rather the bloom 
of nature, is then passing away, and the 
gorgeous and splendid hues which not un- 
frequently adorn the landscape remind us too 
forcibly of that mournful hectic which is 
known to be a fatal precursor of decay. 
Every thing fades around us like our own 
hopes; summer with her sprightliness has 
left us, like the friends of our youth; while 
winter, cold winter, comes apace; alas! too 
like the chilling prospect that lies before us 
in the path of life. Thus, imagination mul- 
tiplies our gloomy associations, and renders 
autumn the season best beloved by the mor- 
bid and cheerless, for very sympathy with 
its tendency to fade. 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


other man, the depth and the intensity of the | 
mind’s worst malady, tells us that— 


‘¢ The glance of melancholy is a fearful gift ;” 


and fearful indeed, is that insatiable appro- 
priation to her own gloomy purposes with |} 
which melancholy endows her victims. 
Fearful would it be to read and sinful to 
write, how melancholy can distort the fairest 
picture, extract bitterness from all things 
sweet and lovely, darkness from light, and 
anguish—unmitigable anguish—from what |. 
was benificently intended to beautify and to | 
bless. 

Hach day, also, has its associations, so 
nearly resembling those of the seasons, that || 
it will not be necessary to examine in their 
separate characters the natural divisions of || 
morning, noon, evening, and night. But 
evening, as being universally allowed to be 
highly poetical, may justly claim a large 
share of our attention. 


“ Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad.” 


These words occur immediately to every 
poetical mind on the first consideration of 
this solemn and lovely hour. Indeed, they 
occur so familiarly, that, if it were possible ||: 
they could lose their charm, it would already |, 
have been destroyed by frequency of repeti- 
tion. But these two lines contain within 
themselves a volume of poetic feeling, that 
will live imperishable and unimpaired, so 
long as the human mind shall retain its 
highest and purest conceptions of the nature 
of real poetry. The very words have a 
resemblance to the general lull of nature 
gently sinking into the silence of night— 
“Now came still evening on;” “twilight 
gray” presents us with more than a picture 
—with a feeling—a distinct perception of 
thin shadows, and white mists gradually 
blending together; and the last line com- 
pletely imbodies in a few simple words, our 
ideas of the all-pervading influence of 
evening, with its universally tranquillizing, 
solemn and mysterious power. 

The mystery of twilight is not the least 
charm it possesses to an imaginative and 
poetic mind. From the earliest records of 
intelligent beings, we learn that mystery 


He who knew, perhaps better than any | has ever been inconceivably powerful in its 


— a 
Sees. 


THE POETRY OF EVENING. 43 | 


influence upon the human mind. All false 
religions have been built upon this founda- 
tion, and even the true has its mysteries, for 
which we reverence it the more. Those 
subjects which excite the deepest veneration 
and awe, strike us with an indefinite sense 
of something which we, do not—which we 
cannot, understand; and the throne of the 
monarch, by being veiled from vulgar eyes, 
is thus invested with a mystery to which it 


is greatly indebted for its support. Were 
all mankind clearly convinced of the inesti- 
mable value of true virtue, were they all 
noble, generous, and devoted, and were all 
sovereigns immaculate, they might then go 
forth amongst their people, defended only by 
their own dignity, supported only by the 
affection and esteem of their subjects. But 
since we have learned in these degenerate 
times that kings are but men, and since 
there are base natures abroad, ever ready 
to lay hold of and expose the slightest proof 
of fallibility in their superiors, it is highly 
necessary to the maintenance of regal ma- 
jesty, that the sovereign should be raised 
above the cognizance of vulgar penetration ; 
that properly initiated members should con- 
stitute the court, within whose penetralia 
the ignorant and common herd are not per- 
mitted to intrude; and that in order to give 
the mandate which issues from the throne, 
the awful solemnity of an oracle, its irrevo- 
| cable veto should be uttered unseen. 


It next becomes our business to inquire 
how mystery possesses this power to fisci- 
nate the strongest mind, and to lead captive 
the most tumultuous passions. 

Along with mystery, there is invariably 
some degree of excitement; and excitement, 
if we may judge by the general conduct 
and pursuits of mankind, is, when not ex- 
tended so as to create a feeling of pain, a 
universally delightful sensation. In speak- 
ing of a love of excitement, those who look 
gloomily upon human nature, are apt to 
describe it as a defect; but would it not be 
more philosophical, as well as more consis- 
tent with a grateful disposition, to regard 
this principle as having been implanted in 
our nature to stimulate us to exertion, and 
to render the various occupations of life a 
succession of pleasing duties, rather than of 
irksome toils ? 


-— Ss ————- ——.. 


ee 


That excitement is uniformly the accom- 
paniment of mystery, is owing to this cause; 
mystery is not the subject of any one partic- 
ular train of ideas, nor can it exclusively oc- 
cupy the reasoning powers, for want of some- 
thing tangible to lay hold of ; but while the 
senses or feelings are strongly affected by 
that which is new, or strange, or fearful, or the 
magnificent, it opens a field in which all the 
faculties of the mind, set. at liberty from phy- 
sical restraint, may rush forth to expatiate 
or combat, without any one gaining the as- 
cendency. Sometimes fear for a moment 
takes the lead, but the want of sufficient 
proof or fact to establish any definite cause 
of alarm, encourages hope; love peoples 
the unfathomable void with creatures of 
its own formation; or hate, revenge, and 
malice wreak their fury upon they know 
not what; while imagination, the sovereign 
queen of mystery, reigns supreme. and un- 
disturbed over her own aerialrealm. ‘Thus 
does mystery afford illimitable scope for 
the perpetual activity and play of all the 
thoughts or passions of which we are capa- 
ble. By allowing liberty of operation to all, 
the violence of each is neutralized, and hence 
the power of mystery over the mind of man. 

It may be argued, that mystery has often 
been the means of exciting the most violent 
passions, such as fear or superstition. Mys- 
tery has unquestionably been made by art- 
ful men the means of exciting the curiosity, 
and arresting the attention of their deluded 
followers; and thus rendering them more 
willing and servile recipients of false views, 
or base desires. But in order that either 
fear or superstition should be excited to any 
violent degree, it must have been necessary 
to dissolve the veil of mystery, and reveal 
distinctly some palpable object of dread, or |: 
subject of mistaken worship. 

But to return from this digression to the 
more pleasing consideration of that delight- 
ful hour of day, which brings to every crea- 
ture the most powerful and indissoluble asso-. 
ciations with what it loves best. 


“ Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
To the young bird its mother’s brooding wings.” 


Before the mystery of evening, if not ina 
higher degree, we are charmed with its re- 
pose. The stillness that gradually steals 


44 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


over the creation extends to our own hearts. 
Passion is lulled, and if we are not, we long 
to be at rest. 

“J will return at the close of day,” says 
the wanderer as he goes forth; and in 
the evening we begin to listen for his wel- 
come, though weary step. “It is but an- 
other day of toil,” says the labourer as he 
brushes away the morning dew, “In the 
evening I shall rest again ;” and already his 
children are watching at the cottage door, 
and his wife is preparing his evening meal. 
All day the rebellious child has resisted the 
chastisements of love; but in the evening 
his soul is subdued, and he weeps upon 
his mother’s bosom. We can appease the 
yearnings of the heart, and drive away re- 
flection—nay, we can live without sympathy, 


until evening steals around our path, and 


tells us with a voice which makes itself be 
heard, that we are alone. In the freshness 


of morning, and through all the stirring oc- 


cupations of busy noon, man can forget his 
Maker ; but in the solemn evening hour he 
feels that he is standing in the presence of 
his God. In the day-time we move on with 
the noisy multitude, in their quest of sordid 
gain, or we wear without weariness or com- 
plaint the gilded chains which bind down 
the soul, or we struggle against the tide of 
time and circumstance, battling with straws, 
and spending our strength in fruitless war- 
fare; butin the evening we long to find a path 
where the flowers are not trampled down by 
many feet, to burst the degrading bonds of 
custom, and to think and feel more like im- 
mortal beings; we see the small importance 
of those contested points about which so ma- 
ny parties are at war, and we become willing 
to glide on with the stream, without fretting 
ourselves about every weed or feather on its 
surface; esteeming peace of mind and good- 
will towards men far before the defence of 
any particular set of opinions, or even the 
establishment of our own. 

Evening is the time for remembrance ; for 
the powers of the mind having been all day 
in exercise, still retain their activity, and 
being no longer engaged in necessary or 
worldly pursuits, branch out into innumera- 
ble associations, from things present and 
visible, to those which are unseen and re- 
mote, and which but for such associations 


might have been forgotten. The evening 
melody of the birds, stealing gently upon the 
humid air, and heard more distinctly than 
their noon-day song, calls up the image of 
some friend with whom we have listened to | 
that sound; nor can we pursue our wonted |! 
evening walk without being reminded by the | 
very path, the trees, the flowers, and even |! 
the atmosphere, of that familiar interchange || 
of thought and feeling, never enjoyed in such | 
perfection as at the close of day. But, | 
above all other ideas connected with this | 
hour, we love the repose of evening. Every | 
living creature is then sinking to rest, dark- | 
ness 1s stealing around us like a misty cur- 
tain, a dreamy languor subdues our harsher | 
feelings, and makes way for the flow of all |! 
that is tender, affectionate, or refined. It is 
scarcely possible to muse upon this subject 
without thinking of the return of the wan- 
derer, the completion of labour, the folding 
of the weary wing, the closing of innocent 
eyes in peaceful slumber, the vesper hymn, 
and the prayer or thanksgiving with which 
every day should be closed. 

How is it, that when there is so much 
even in external nature to remind ungrate- 
ful man of his duty, he should be backward |, 
in offering that tribute which is due to the 
Author of all his blessings? Is it so hard a 
thing to be thankful for the bountiful sun, 
when we see what a train of glory goes 
along with his departing light? For the 
gentle and refreshing dews which come 
with timely nourishment to the dry and 
drooping plants? For those very plants, 
and their unspeakable utility and beauty ? 
For all that the eye beholds of loveliness or 
magnificence, or that the ear distinguishes 
of harmony? But above all, for that un- 
wearied sense of enjoyment with which it is 
possible for man to walk through the crea- 
tion, rendering thanks to his Creator at 
every step. 

Far be it from the writer of these pages to 
advocate the vain philosophy of past ages— 
the vague notion long since discarded from 
the rational world, that the contemplation |! 
of the grandeur, beauty, or even perfection 
of the universe, is sufficient of itself to lead 
the heart to God. I speak of such contem- 
plation as being the natural and suitable 
exercise of an immortal mind, and of the 


THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 


em 


| 


= 


glories of creation as curroborating evidence 
that a gracious will has designed the mys- 

tery of our being, and that a powerful hand 
continues to uphold the world which we in- 
habit. I speak of the soothing calm of even- 
ing, not with the puerile notion that mere 
sentimental musing is conducive to the vi- 
tality of the true spirit of Christianity—that 
spirit which is compelled to engage in active 
warfare with the world, and sometimes to 
maintain its stand amidst all that is repulsive 
to the poetic mind; but I speak of the even- 
ing hour as a season of repose and whole- 
some refreshment to this spirit, and of all 
other enjoyments derived from the admira- 
tion of nature as lawful, natural, and highly 
conducive to the feeling of thankfulness 
which unfailingly pervades the soul of the 
true Christian. 

| 

| 


> 


THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 


To write a chapter on the moon, appears, 
at first sight, a task no less presumptuous 
in itself, than inevitably fruitless in its con- 
sequences—fruitless as regards that kind of 
interest which on behalf of the queen of 
night has been called forth and sanctified 
'| by the highest powers of genius, as well as 
'| abused and profaned by the lowest. To 

apostrophize the moon, even in the ‘most 
| ecstatic lays, would, in the present day be 
little less absurd than to attempt 


j 
| 
| 
} 
j 
{ 
| 
| 
“ To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
To throw a perfume o’er the violet, 
To smoothe the ice, or add another hue 
Unto the rainbow, or with lantern light 
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven\to garnish.” 


Yet in order to prove that the moon is of 
all natural and sensible objects, pre-eminent- 
ly poetical, no other facts need be adduced 
than these ; that all the effusions of disordered 
fancy which have’ been offered at her’shrine, 
|| since first the world began, have not deprived 
|| the queen of night of one iota of her regal 
| dignity; not all the abortive efforts of de- 
|| ceptive art, (and not a few have presented a 
mockery of her inimitable beauty,) have, in 
the slightest degree impaired the charm of 
her loveliness ; not all the allusions of sickly 


sentiment, or vulgar affectation, have sullied 


| 
|g 
oe 


her purity; nor have all the scenes of de- 
gradation, fraud, or cruelty, which her 
mysterious light has illuminated, been able, 
even in these clear-sighted and practical 
times, to render less solemn and imposing, 
that soul-pervading influence, with which the 
moon is still capable of inspiring those who 
have not entirely subdued or sacrificed the 
tender, generous, or sublime emotions of 
their nature. 

In power, and majesty, and glory, the sun 
unquestionably claims our regard before all 
other objects of creation. But the sun is 
less poetical than ‘the moon, because his at- 
tributes are less exclusively connected with 
our mental perceptions. By combining the 
idea of heat with that of light, our associa- 
tions become more sensitive and corporeal, 
and consequently less refined. The light 
of the sun is also too clear, and too generally 
pervading in its nature, to be so poetical as 
that of the moon. It leaves too little for the 
imagination. All is revealed to the eye; 
and myriads of different objects being thus 
made distinctly visible, the attention wants 
that focus of concentration which gives in- 
tensity and vividness to all our impressions: 

“ But the stars,” some may ask, “are they 
not sufficiently distant and magnificent for 
sublimity—mild enough for purity—beautiful 
enough for love?” Yes; but they are too 
distant—too pure—too cold for human love. 
They come not near our troubled world, they 
smile not upon us like the moon. We feel 
that they are beautiful. We behold and 
admire. No wonder that the early dwellers 
upon earth should have been tempted to be- 
hold and worship. - But one thing is wanting, 
that charm, whether real or ideal, which 
connects or seems to connect, our mental 
sufferings, wants, and wishes, with some 
high and unattainable source of intelligence 
—the charm of sympathy. Thousands of 
purified and elevated minds have expatiated 
upon the stars as the most sublime of all 
created objects, and so unquestionably they 
are ;* but sublimity is not all that constitutes 


$$$ A | A 


PMT ean 


'* Every one disposed to doubt this truth, may find 
full conviction by reading in Montgomery’s Lectures on 
Poetry, a few pages devoted to this subject; perhaps 
the most poetical effusion that ever flowed from an elo- 
quent pen, inspired by a refined imagination, a highly 
gifted mind, and a devout spirit. 


eee ee 


Se en EST ELE SELLE LITLE EE LITLE LL IETS PLEA OSAP CLE ID 


i 


cares where we. lie grovelling. 


46 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


the essence of poetic feeling. The spirit of 
poetry dwells not always in the high and 
distant heavens, but loves to vary its exist- 
tence by the enjoyment of tender and home- 
felt delights. ‘Thus, we are not satisfied, 
even in our hightest intellectual pursuits, 
unless we find something to appropriate, and 
call our own; and thus while we admire the 
stars as splendid portions of the heavens, we 
both admire and love the moon, because, 
still retaining her heavenly character, she 
approaches nearer to our earth. We can- 
not look upon the stars without being struck 
with a sense of their distance, their unattain- 
able height, the immeasurable extent of 
space that lies between the celestial fields 
which they traverse with a perpetual har- 
mony of motion, and the low world of petty 
But the 
moon—the placid moon, is just high enough 
for sublimity, just near enough for love. So 
benign, and bland, and softly beautiful is her 
ever-beaming countenance, that when per- 
sonifying, as we always do, the moon, she 
seems to us rather as purified than as having 
been always pure. We feel as if some fel- 
lowship with human frailty and suffering 
had brought her near us, and almost wonder 
whether her seasons of mysterious darkness 
are accompanied with that character of high 
and unimpeachable dignity which attends 
her seasons of light. Her very beams, when 
they steal in upon our meditations, seem 
fraught with tenderness, with charity, and 
love: so that: we naturally associate them 
in our own minds, not so much with super- 
natural perfection, as with that which has 
been refined and sublimated by a moral 
process. We call toremembrance the dark- 
est imputation ever cast upon the moon, in 
those dark times when to be a goddess was 
by no means to be free from every moral 
stain; and then, in fanciful return for all her 
sweet, and cheermg, and familiar light, we 
sometimes offer a sigh of pity to the vestal 
Dian, that she should have paid so dearly 
for having loved but once, and that with so 
pure a flame, that it disturbed not the dreams 
of a slumbering shepherd boy. 

To prove that the moon is of all visible ob- 
jects the most poetical, there needs no other 
evidence than the nwmber of poetic lays in 
which she has been celebrated. The merit 


of these lays is proof of 9 totally different | 
nature, and has nothing to do with the case in 
point; the inspiration being in the moon her- 
self—the virtue of that inspiration in the souls 
of her votaries. Here however we find ad- 
ditional, and perhaps stronger proof of the 
same fact; for not only have poets of every 
age, and every country, found in the queen of |} 
night a never-tiring theme; but she has un- |}. 
questionably the honour of having called forth 
some of the most memorable, and most bril- 
liant effusions of poetic genius. To quote 
illustrative passages on this subject would 
be to fill volumes, and to make selections 
would be almost impossible, amongst in- 
stances so numerous and so fraught with in- 
terest; but there is one scene in the Mer- 
chant of Venice which deserves particular no- 
tice, for the natural and simple manner in 
which the poet has given us the most perfect 
idea of an exquisite moonlight night, ap- 
parently without effort, and almost without |}, 
description. It is where the two lovers, es- || 
caped from danger and suspicion, first find 
time and opportunity for the quiet enjoyment 
which is best appreciated after imminent 
risk. In this picture (for it is nothing less) 
we behold most. strikingly the master hand 
by which the scene is drawn. Here is no bab- 
bling ‘aboutsilver rays,’ ‘soft influence,’ ‘smi- 
ling light; the passage commences merely. 
with— The moon shines bright;’ and then 
so perfect is the enjoyment of the lovers, both 
in each other and in all that surrounds them, 
that they immediately strike off comparisons 
between that particular night, and others that 
have been vividly impressed upon their im- 
aginations, not by observation, but by pas- 
sages from (perhaps their favourite) authors, 
where the moon has been called in to aid 
the representation of some of the most strik- 
ing scenes. Had the happiness of Lorenzo 
and Jessica been less absorbing, or had the 
night been less beautiful, they might have 
told us how, and upon what objects the 
moon was then shining. But with them all 
was complete: They had no comments to 
make upon the lovely night, which we are 
left to suppose too exquisite for description ; 
and after amusing themselves and each 
other with simple, but most beautiful allu- 
sions to classic history, they very naturally 
fall into that playful humour, which belongs |! 


to perfect happiness, and descending from 
their poetic flights, turn upon each other the 
sportive badinage, which is more familiar 
to those who are but “earthly happy.” 
They are then interrupted by the entrahce 
of a messenger; but still the mind of the 
poet having been filled to overflowing with 
his own idea, or rather his own intense feel- 
ing of this ecstatic night, he goes on after the 
first exuberance of fancy has been expended 
in mere association, to give us some de- 
scription of the scene ; and then follows that 
passage so highly imaginative and poctical, 
yet withal so simple, that it seems but to em- 
body in words, the faint dreams that have 
floated through our own minds a thousand 
times without finding utterance: 


* How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

Sit. Jessica. Look how the floor of Heaven 
Is thick inJaid with patines of bright gold ; 
There’s not the smallest orb, which thon behold’st, 


But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Stil) quiring to the young-ey’d cherubims. 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 


But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.” 


In coutemplating the different attributes 
of the moon. first, and most striking, is that 
distinctness of light and shade which charac- 
terise her influence over external nature. 
Here are no lesser lights, no minor shadows 
to constitute a medium between the two ex- 
tremes. The whole earth is under the do- 
minion of two ruling powers; and every ma- 
terial object presents on one side a surface 
distinctly visible, while the other is lost in 
impenetrable darkness. Not a wreath of 
ivy, a projecting cornice, or a broken turret, 
but the moon invests it with a beauty of her 
own, more attractive to the eye, and more 
potent in its influence upon the imagination, 
from the depth of mysterious shadow by 
which it is contrasted. Beautiful as her 
light unquestionably is, when it falls upon 
the verdure of the sloping bank, where every 
flower, and leaf and tendril have their shining 
surface contrasted with their shadow, we 
should scarcely pause to offer our tribute of 
admiration, by telling how often the poet’s lay 
has recorded events which took place “on 
such a night,” but that in glancing from this 
lee of silvery brightness, we behold the 


THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 


AT 


deep gloom of the surrounding woods, the 
narrow defile, or the hollow cave, within 
whose confines the queen of night, with all 
her power, and all her splendour, is unable 
to penetrate. 

Another striking attribute of the moon, 
and one which seems more especially to 
bring her within the sphere of human sym- 
pathy, is her alternate darkness and illumi- 
nation; which last is familiarly spoken of as 
a periodical visitation ; for so powerful are 
the senses of the imagination, that it is With 
some difficulty we realize the truth, that 
when the moon is invisible to our eyes, she | 
is in reality as present with us as when her 
soft light salutes us in our nightly wander- | 
ings. Thus we hear perpetually of the con- 
stancy, as well as the inconstancy of the 
moon ; just as a similitude with either qual- 
ity may suit the poet’s need. Of her con- 
stancy, because, lost as she is to our out- 
ward perceptions, we are able to calculate 
with undeviating certainty the hour of her 
return; of her inconstancy, because how 
profound soever are the devotions offered at || 
her shrine, that shrine is no sooner invested 
with the full splendour of her celestial 
brightness, than the ineffable light begins to 
wane, and finally disappears. 

From the long established custom of ap- 
pealing to the moon in our descriptions of 
mental suffering, we might almost be led to 
pronounce that melancholy was one of her 
chief characteristics, were not this poetical 
propensity easily accounted for, by the en- 
joyments of the generality of mankind being 
of such a nature as to confine their attention 
to social, stirring, mundane subjects of inter- 
est or excitement; and thus to leave little 
time, and less inclination, for making obser- | 
vations upon the moon: while under the in- 
fluence of melancholy, which has in all 
minds the same tendency to silence, solitude, 
and contemplation, the eye is naturally di- | 
rected to scenes of repose and serenity, and 
more than all, to the solemn aspect of the 
heavens. It is here that we look for peace ; 
and we all can remember, when through the 
long watches of the sleepless night, the 
moon was our only companion, the only 
friend who was near us under the pressure 
of our calamity, or who appeared to sympa- 
thize in our distress. 


48 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


Surely the sweet influence of the queen 
of night is in its own nature more cheering 
than melancholy. How many glad occasions 
of social and festive entertainment are regu- 
lated by the moon. “We will visit our 
friends when the moon is at the full”—“ We 
will return by the light of the moon ”—“ We 
wait for the moon before we set sail,” is the 
familiar language of every day ; andl how 
much more must the mariner on the mighty 
deep rejoice in her welcome visitations, and 
hail her nightly radiance as she rises over 
the unfathomable abyss. Shines not the 
moon through the grated lattice of the pri- 
son, from whence all other gentle comforters 
are excluded, smiling upon the criminal in 
his feverish sleep, and reminding him when 
he starts into waking consciousness, that 
while his brother man, perhaps weak, falli- 
ble, and faulty as himself, had he been simi- 
larly cireumstanced, is able to pursue, im- 
peach, and condemn, according to the strict 


of want of knowledge, of early bias, and 
more than all, of peculiar and incalculable 
temptation’; there is still mercy in the ever- 
lasting heavens—an eye that looks down 
upon his earthly sufferings, beholding 
through a clear, and steady, and impartial 
light, all that is hidden from the scrutiny of 
man; and that an humble, solemn, and 
heartfelt appeal, even from out his dungeon, 
beneath his chains, or upon the fatal scaffold, 
may yet be made to that higher tribunal, 
whose judgments are as unparalled in mer- 
cy, as unimpeachable in justice. 

Is not the moon, amidst all the chances 
and changes that occur to us in this sublu- 
nary scene, still, still the same? We recall 
the sweet and social evenings, when the 
moon looked in upon our childish play, 
through the trellice-work of vine and jessa- 
mine that grew around our ancestral dwell- 
ing. How looks that dwelling now? The 
vine and the jessamine are rooted from the 


SC AT RN SE SE TE I IE I EI EEN TEE TEED ID YOST IE CD EI DAI ETL IDE EIDE PLEAD BAIBE LIAL 


ly is one stone left upon another. Where 
are the companions of those happy hours ? 
Some have paid the debt of nature, and are 
one we ask not where ; some are so altered 
in their loves and friendships, that we know 
them not, or perhaps, they know not us; 
and others are scattered abroad throughout 


ae 


LE aN A i en 
—— 


authority of laws, which take no cognizance 


earth, the walls are broken down, and scarce-- 


the busy world, chasing their different ob- 
jects of ambition or desire, in which we hold 
no share: even our own hearts, though they 
feel the same to us in their capability of suf 
fering, having learned to beat another tune, 
to burn with different fires, to be vivified 
with a new life, or subject to a fatality 
which we were far from apprehending then. 
Yet the moon—the lovely moon, is still the 
same, shining on with the same ineffable ef- 
fulgence—teaching us that constancy is not 
an empty name, though we and ours have 
failed to find the reality—that there is purity || 
and peace beneath the heavens, though we 
are still wandering in fruitless quest of both 
| 


_—that there is an inexhautible fountain of 


loveliness and delight, 
wasted ours. 

And is not the moon most kind, most chari- 
table, that she reveals no deformities, brings 
to light no defects, but ever shines on— 


though we have 


“ Leaving that beautiful, that still was so, 
And making that which was not.” 


Oh! it is wearisome in our daily existence 
to see the critic’s eye for ever peering through 
a narrow focus of concentrated and partial 
light, to find out the specks upon the face of 
the sun, the soil of the lily, the footprints of 
the butterfly upon the velvet petals of the 
rose; listening with his ear sharpened to an 
acuteness that renders it sensible only of dis- 
cord, to detect the misapplication of tone and 
emphasis in the eloquence that shakes the 
world, the wrong cadence in the voice that 
tells “of anguish, the false note in the har- 
mony of the spheres. Yet this is what men 
call wisdom—a wisdom which if it fails to 
subdue the ignorance and prejudice of man- 
kind, at least destroys the capacity for ap- 
preciating the beauty and perfection of the 
creation, and the desire to bow with mute 
reverence and awe before its Creator. It is 
this wisdom which intrudes its unwelcome 
presence upon our daily walk, rendering that |) 
walk most wearisome, and the society we |. 
meet there, infinitely worse than solitude. | 
But the night returns—the calm and silent 
night, and the sweet moon rising over the , 
eastern hills, goes forth upon her pathway || 
through the heavens. Perchance an envious 
cloud advances, and her form is obscured by 
misty vapours; but they pass away, and 


~ 
vst a ee ne 


THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 


her smile looks sweeter than before. Upon 
the rugged precipice, the dark impenetrable 
forest, the restless waves of the ocean, “her 
soft and solemn light” is falling, beautifying 
:| whatever it shines upon, marking out as with 
a silver pencil the majestic outline of the 
crag or promontory, but leaving the deep 
and frightful cavern at its base still unre- 
vealed; tinging with radiant lustre the light 
boughs that wave and dance as if with very 
gladness in her welcome beams, the sprays 
of glittering ivy, or the lofty turrets of the 
ancient tower, while passing in her peaceful 
progress over every scene of gloom and ter- 
ror, she seems to cast the dark places of the 
earth into yet deeper shade; or, turning the 
foam of the angry billows into crests of spark- 
ling light, the troubled track of the heaving 
bark into a silvery pathway, and the sails 
that flutter in the adverse gale, into the white 
pinions of some angelic messenger, she 
kindly offers to the imaginative beholder, a 
picture of sublimity for that of danger—of 
trust for anxious fear—of hope for murmur- 
ing and despair. 

Is not the moon also a faithful treasurer 
of sweet and pleasant memories? We 
might forget (in this world there is much to 
| make us forget) what we learned before our 
| minds were tainted by the envious struggle 
| for pre-eminence, and the necessity of sordid 
| gain, or soured by the disappointments in- 
| evitably attending both. The worldly man, 
the sharp keen bustler of the city, sees little 
to call back his thoughts to the days of un- 
sophisticated innocence, and still less to re- 
commend to his now mature judgment, what 
he would call nothing better than his boyish 
blindness, to his own best interests. But the 
bodily frame in time wears out, the city feast 
becomes unpalatable to the sickly appetite, 
and civic honours are unable to support the 
head they crown. Sleepless nights succeed 
to wearisome days. Perhaps his attendant 
enjoys that repose, which he is unable to 
purchase with all his wealth. To sum up 
the amount of his gold, no Jonger relieves 
the aching void of his heart. There is a 
gnawing want still pressing upon him, even 
at this late hour of the day, which all his 
possessions are unequal to supply; and he 
begins at last to question, whether they may 
not have cost him more than their real value. 


Lost in a world of vague and unsatisfying 
thoughts, the moon steals in upon his medi- 
tations. It is not with him as with more 
feeling minds, that memory: rushes back 
with one tremendous, bound; but with his |. 
wonted caution and reserve, he begins to re- |. 
trace the pilgrimage of past years, the silent | 
moonbeams lighting him unconsciously on |. 
his way, and leading him by the chain of 
association back to his paternal home. He 
enters again the once familiar habitation. 
He takes possession of the chair appropriated 
to the darling boy, and along with it the 
many pure and lively feelings, which the 
world had chased away. Tie listens to his 
father’s gentle admonitions, and feels the af- || 
fectionate pressure of his hand, upon his then 
unrufiled brow. He hears his mother’s voice 
as she sings their evening hymn, and * Oh!” 
the man of wealth exclaims, “that I might 
be again that innocent and happy boy!” - 

If he who embarks his whole heart in the 
sordid avocations of life, is necessarily driven 
on to resign the noblest aspirations, and ten- 
derest affections of his youth, the volaress 
of fashion becomes if possible more heart- |! 
less, and more hardened in her servile and 
despicable career: it is possible from this 
cause that in order toact to the life the artifi- 
cial character she has assumed, it is neces- 
sary that she should sometimes wear the 
semblance of feeling, just in that proportion, 
and according to that peculiar mode, which 
may best suit the selfish purpose of the mo- 
ment; and this empty mockery of the best 
and loveliest attributes of human nature— 
of its affections, sympathies, and high caya- 


bilities, has a more debasing and injurious 


effect upon the mind, than the total forget- 
fulness even of their outward character. 
But the woman of fashion cannot always 
keep her thoughts directed to the same bril- 
liant point. There will he moments when 
she suspects the potency of the idol to whom 
her only devotions have been offered. With 
her also the exhaustion of the bodily frame, 
will produce a pining after that which has 
been sacrificed at the altar of the world—a 
longing to lie down and rest, beneath the 
sheltering wings of the angel of peace. Per- |! 
chance she has stolen unnoticed from the 
busy throng, to breathe for one moment with 
greater freedom at the open casement. She 


4 


LOS a 


a ee 


eR 


| 
) 


es 
a a rn” 
a EL I 


a ee 


50 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


still hears the tread of the noisy dance—the 
music—the glad voices—and she feels what 
no heart is capable of feeling without a pang, 
that her presence is not necessary to the en- 
joyment of her reputed friends, and that 
when her head is laid within the grave they 
wiil still dance on, without being conscious 
that one familiar step is wanting in their 
merriment. Her soulis oppressed. She looks 
out beneath the high blue silent heavens, 
and the moon is there to welcome her as 
with a sister’s smile. It is to the moon alone 
that all human beings can appeal with an 
inward sense of sympathy ; and to the moon 
at last she ventures to utter that complaint, 
which no ear has ever heard.. “It was not 
thus!” the melancholy strain begins, but 
tears—true, unaffected tears are rising, and 
she looks down upon the clustering jessa- 
mine, whose delicate stars gleam out in the 
moonbeams, and send forth their odorous 
perfumes upon the gales of night. It was 
not thus that she, that splendid mourner, 
weary with the weight of her own diamonds, 
and sick of the selfishness of her own chosen 
friends, looked. up to the face of the pale 
moon, in those hours when the moon looks 
fairest—those happy hours when even she, 
the false one, was beloved. Her memory, 
the only faculty which she has not been able 
to pervert, returns to the bright season of 
sincerity and youth. Again she is walking 
by the side of one whom worlds could not 
have tempted to violate her confidence, or 
wound her love—one who was deserted for 
a worthless rival, in his turn to be cast off 
for another, and then a third, and so on, 
until the world at last became the only can- 
didate for her affections, the only ruler of 
herheart. “It was not thus!” she exclaims, 
“that I was wont to look upon the moon. 
Oh! give me back the loves, the friendships 
of my early days. Restore the capability 
of trusting, even though I should still be de- 
ceived! Awaken in my soul the faculty of 
hope, though I should be disappointed still ! 
Rekindle my affections, that I may feel the 
possibility of loving, though I should never 
be beloved again! Let me hear once more 


strange to mine ear! Let me listen to the 
language of truth, though it should condemn 
the whole of my past life !” 


oe eS eee 


I 


Fg a wi AR SS 


a 
a 


i 
| 


The mariner at midnight on the deep sea, 
looks forth when other eyes are sleeping, 
towards the bright opening in the eastern 
clouds, where the pale lustre of the rising 
moon gives welcome promise of her blessed 
visitation. Soon her full round orb appears 
in all its splendour, and the dark vapours 
float away, or, gliding gently past her 
beaming face, receive the soft reflection of 
her smile, before they pass into the undistin- 
guishable chaos of night. High into the 
azure heavens she now ascends, while the 
lonely helmsman chants to the heedless gale 
the songs of his native land. He gazes 
upon the wide expanse of heaving water, |} 
and ever as his eye dwells upon that silvery 
track of light that seems to Iure him away 
to another world, recollections which the 
bustle of the day keeps down, and thoughts |} 
dear as the miser’s hoarded treasure, rise | 
within his breast, fresh and spontaneous; 
and he thinks how the same moon shone 
upon the woodbine bower where he first 
wooed the village maid, who blushed in her 
innocent joy, and inwardly exulted in the 
short-lived happiness of being a sailor’s 
bride. Has he not seen that bower again? 
Yes, and the woodbine was still lovely, but 
his bride had lost her maiden bloom, and 
the cares of a lonely and almost widowed 
wife had made her prematurely old. Again 
he has returned to that well-known spot— 
that haven of his dearest hopes and the 
babe that should have welcomed him with 
the kind name of father, was sleeping be- 
neath a little grassy mound in the church- 
yard, while he had been far away in its 
hour of agony, and its last cry had been un- 
heard by him. Once more he has returned 
to his deserted home. The mother too was } 
gone to her place of rest, and two humble 
graves sile by side were all the memorial 
that remained of his domestic happiness. 
What then? Does he wish that his mar- 
riage day had never dawned? would he 
extinguish the memory of the past? No, 
though amidst the stir of the busy day, or 
amongst his jovial comrades he thinks little 
of his wife and child, yet in the solitude of 


the voice of kindness, though it should be | the night watches when the moon is above 
his head, and no sound is to be heard but 
the ripple of the water against the vessel’s 


THE POETRY OF THE MOON 


51 


brancer, that she visits him in his loneliness, 
to tell him those tales of tenderness to which 
his ear has become strange, and to open in 
his bold and hardy bosom those sweet 
fountains of human love which transform 
the character of the rude sailor into that 
of the avenger of the injured, the father 
of the orphan, and the protector of the help- 
less. . ; 
Thus ever sweet and pleasant to the 
watchful eyes of the wayfaring man, is the 
moon as she rises from her throne of clouds. 
He turns to gaze upon that welcome face, 
and thinks how many well-known and fa- 
miliar looks are directed to the same object. 
Perchance he has been a wanderer through 
many lands, a voyager over the deep seas, 
a pilgrim of the world; yet ever on his 
wayward course, the same mild moon has 
been like a faithful and untiring friend, 
speaking to him amongst a strange people 
in the native language of his heart, and 
telling through the lonely night, sweet 
tidings of his wished-for home. Whether 
amid snow covered hills, through the frozen 
wilderness, along the ckirts of the pine 
forest, far, far away, she guides the solitary 


_Laplander ? or, in more sultry climes looks 


down through the foliage of the waving 
palm tree, and glances over the bright sur- 
face of the welcome waters, where the 
Indian laves his burning feet: whether high 
above the tower, the minaret, or stately 
dome, she looks down, a silent and unmoved 
spectator, upon the thickly-peopled city, the 
perpetual stir, the hurry and the rush of busy 
life ; or far away in the silence and solitude 
of some lone isle of the ocean, touching 
with her sparkling radiance the leaves and 
blossoms of that nameless and uncultured 
garden, and the rippling waves that rise 
and fall, and lull themselves to rest upon 
that unknown shore: whether through the 
richly curtained window of the palace, her 


modest light steals gently in, and gliding | 


over the marble floor, or along the tapestried 
walls, rest in its silence and purity upon the 


‘crimson canopy of kings; or where the cot- 


tage of the herdsman stands upon. the lone 
moor, silvers the mossy turf beside his door, 
covering the grey thatch of the mouldering 
roof with her garment of beauty, and look- 
ing in with her quiet and approving smile 


ee ed 


upon his homely meal, blessing the cup of 
which he drinks, and lighting the parents’ 
way, as they seek the couch of their slum- 
bering cherubs to ask a blessing for the 
coming day, to return thanks for the past, 
and then to enjoy the refreshment of peace- 
ful and untroubled sleep; over the waste 
unpeopled desert, the rich and fertile fields 
which surround the habitations of men, the 
tempest-troubled ocean, or the hive of human 
industry, it is the same moon that meets the 
traveller’s anxious gaze, and ever on his 
lonely and distant course he feels it to be 
the same whose rays are interwoven with 
the thread of his early existence. 

Yes, it is the same moon whose silver 
crescent was hung in the blue heavens when 
the first night shadowed the infant world 
with its mighty and mysterious wing. It is 
the same moon that rocks the restless tides 
from shore to shore, with a monotony of mo- 
tion that marks out the different epochs in the 
lite of man, and over-rules his most momen- 
tous actions with a power which he is una- 
ble either to baffle or subdue. It is the same 
moon for the mystic eclebration of whose 
metamorphoses, the king of Israel erected an 
edifice, the most splendid that human in- 
genuity could invent, or human labour con- 
struct. It is the same moon for the visi- 
ble completion of whose perfect radiance, 
the Spartans, while yet their souls were 
fired with the noblest ambition, sacrificed 
their share of glory in the memorable field 
of Marathon. Itis the same moon which 
inspires the most ecstatic dreams of the en- 
thusiast, giving to his earth-born visions, a 
refinement and sublimity, which belong only 
to that imaginative realm, over which the 
queen of night presides. It is the same 
moon upon which the eyes of countless 
myriads are nightly gazing, but which never 
yet inspired one unholy thought, awakened 
one mean or sordid feeling, or called forth 
one passion inimical to the maintenance of 
“peace on earth and goodwill towards men.” 
It is the same moon which personifies in her 
refulgent orb that bright link of spiritual 
connection between this troubled life, and one 
that is without anxiety, and without tears; 
hanging her single lamp of ineflable radiance 
above our nightly slumbers, like a beacon of 
hope to lure us to a better land—returning 


52 


again, and again to this earthly sphere, to 
warn us of the danger of delay, to cherish 
our heavenward aspirations, and to teach us 
that there is a love, (Oh! how unlike the 

i love of man!) as constant and untiring in its 
faithfulness, as slow to avenge disobedience 
and neglect. 


a 


eS 


THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 


Berore entirely quitting the fascinating 
employment of tracing out the poetical asso- 
ciations of particular objects in nature, it is 
necessary to add a few remarks upon the 
‘| effect produced upon the mind by rural 

scenery in general. | 

The great difficulty in the task I have un- 
dertaken, a difficulty which presents itself 
most strikingly at this stage of the work, is 
to avoid the folly of being too sentimental, 
or rather to escape the charge of wishing to 
lead the mind away from what is substan- 
tially useful, to that which is merely vision- 
ary. If the major part of society in the 
present day consisted of love-stricken poets 
and languishing girls, mine would indeed be 

| ascheme unnecessary and ifl devised ; but 
as the tendency of our present system of ed- 
ucation, our conversation, habits, and modes 

| of thinking, is towards the direct opposite of 
sentimentality, we may fairly presume, that 

| in the opinion of all candid and competent 
judges, this work will be considered harm- 
legs, to say the least of it; and that the wri- 
ter will have due credit given for an earnest 

| endeavor to assist in rescuing the spirit of 
poesy from the oppression of vulgar tyran- 
ny, and in guarding the temple of the muses 
from the profanations of avarice and dis- 
cord. 

The character of the cultivated portion of 
the present race of mankind is too practical, 
too bustling, too commercial, I might almost 
say, too material, to admit of the least ap- 
prehension that ideas should be brought to 
stand in the place of facts, that learning 
should be superseded by sensibility, or that 
vague notions about the essences of things 
should be preferred io a just and circum- 
stantial knowledge of the actual substances 
of those things themselves. 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


It is unnecessary to state, that happiness, 
in one shape or another, is the great end we ' 
have in view, in all our pursuits and avoea- | 
tions; whether that happiness consists in 
amassing or expending money; in our per- 
sonal and sensual gratifications, or in the 
aggrandisement of others; in maintaining |} 
the station to which, by birth or education, 
we have become attached, or in raising our- |} 
selves to a higher scale of society ; in obtain- 
ing and securing to ourselves the refine- |} 
ments and luxuries of life, or in cultivating |} 
the mental powers ; in looking far and deep, 
both into the visible and the intellectual 
world, for those principles of consistency, 
beauty, and harmony, which owe their de- 
velopment to an almighty hand; and in 
recognising the work of that hand in every |} 
thing around and within us, from the sim- |} 
plest object of sense, to the most sublime and 
majestic source of contemplation. 

The question is not, under which of these 
forms mankind is most addicted to look for 
happiness, but under which of these forms 
the happiness there in found, is likely to be |} 
most conducive to the cultivation and refine- |[ 
ment of that part of his nature which is com- 
mitted to him as a sacred trust, and will 
have to be rendered up, either elevated or 
debased, for eternity. I know that poetry 
is not religion; and that a man may dwell 
in a region of poetical ideas, yet far from his || 
God: but we learn from the Holy Scrip- || 
tures, whose whole language is that of poe- 
try, as well as by the slightest experimental 
knowledge of the subject, that poetry may 
be intimately associated with religion, and 
that, so far from weakening its practical in- || 
fluence, it may be woven in with our familiar 
duties, so as to beautify what would other- 
wise be repulsive, to sweeten what is bitter, 
and to elevate what we have been accus- 
tomed to regard as mean or degraded. | 

It is not thus with sordid or artificial life. |} 
Poetry neither can, nor will dwell there? 
The atmosphere is too dense, and those who 
inhale it acquire a taste for its impurities, 
upon the same principle as that on which 
the victim of habits more gross and vicious | 
learns to love the odour of the deleterious 
bowl, because it is associated with the grati- 
fication of his brutal appetites. 

1 am far from wishing that all men were 


ee ee 


ee ee ee ee ee 


THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 


53 


poets; or that the practical and necessary 
rules of education, should give place to the 
lawless vagaries of fancy, or the impulse of 
feelings uncontrolled: but I do wish that 
these rules and the attention they require, 
did not occupy the whole season of youth, 
without leaving time then to feel that they 
are essential. I do wish that men and wo- 
men too, would sometimes pause in their 
hurry after mere verbal knowledge, to think 
for themselves; and turn away occasionally 
from the pile of fresh books which every day 
sees placed before them, to study that which 
never was, and never can be written—the 
wide field of nature ; not only as it lies spread 
before their actual view, but as it expands in 
their own minds, teaching them by the 
gradual unfolding of the eternal principles 
of truth, that we have faculties of the heart, 
as well as of the head, and that we must 
hereafter render an account of a moral as 
well as of an intellectual nature. 

How far my impressions in favor of a 
country life, may arise from early habit and 
association, lam not prepared to say; and 
I must be candid enough to grant, that the 
state of society in remote and isclated dis- 
tricts, does not present an aspect at all calcu- 
lated to support the idea that our moral facul- 
ties are improved in proportion to the means 
we enjoy of cultivating an acquaintance 
with external nature; but the fact that this 
opportunity alone is insufficient to produce 
the effect, by no means proves, that in con- 
junction with other advantages it is not pow- 
erfully conducive to the end desired. In the 
country, man may be as brutish, as stultified, 
and as incapable of every gentle or sublime 
emotion, as in the city he may be gross, sel- 
fish and insensible to the happiness and 
misery of others: but it is no more the fault 
of nature when the eye has not been opened 
to behold her beauties, than it is the fault of 
the musician when his auditors are without 
the sense of hearing. I speak of the enjoy- 
ment which nature is capable of affording, 
not of that which it. necessarily forces upon 
man, whether he looks for it or not; nor 
does the fact, that remote dwellers in the 
country have amongst themselves a very 
low standard of intellectual merit, prove any- 
thing against my argument; since I believe 
it may be asserted with confidence, that no 


poet of eminence in his art, and but few in- 
tellectual characters remarkable for the best 
use of the highest endowments, ever lived, 
who had not at some time or other of their 
lives, studied nature for t! emselves, imbibed 
strong impressions from their own observa- 
tion of the external world, and from these 
impressions drawn conclusions of the utmost 
importance to society at large. 

He whose mind is once deeply imbued 
with poetic feeling, may afterwards enter 
into the ordinary concerns of life, and even 
engage in the active commerce of the world, 
without losing his elevated character. It is 
only when substituted for common sense, 
that poetic feeling can be absurd or con- 
temptible. Blended with our domestic oc- 
cupations, its office is to soften, harmonize, 
and refine; and carried along with us 
through the more conspicuous duties of 
social and public life, it is well calculated to 
remind us, that there is a higher ambition 
than that of accumulating wealth, and that 
we have capabilities for intellectual happi- 
ness, which may be freely and fully exer- 
cised without interference with our aie? 
interests. 

It is not then by merely dwelling in the 
country, that men become poetical; nor by 


working their way by fair and honourable | 


means, to pecuniary independence, that they 


necessarily sacrifice the best part of their | 


nature: though it must be confessed, that 
the ordinary routine of city life, as it is gene- 
rally conducted, has a tendency, to extin- 
cuish, rather than excite poetic genius. The 
principal reason why it does this, is obvious 
to the candid observer, The mind as well 
as the body is always in need of food, and 
this necessity it naturally prefers to supply, 
with the least possible expense of pain or 
labour. If facts of great number and variety 
are continually set before us, little attention 
will be paid to principles ; because facts can 
be received with no exertion, while princi- 
ples must be investigated and examined, to 
be in any degree understood. In towns, the 
news of the day is eagerly inquired after, 
and public journals, travellers, and frequent 
meetings, furnish for the general demand a 
constant supply of facts; while in the coun- 
try even facts have often to be sought for 
with considerable labour and industry, and 


54 


los 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


| ean only be enjoyed, with long intervals be- 
tween every fresh accession of intelligence. 
Thus a real energetic mind, learns to con- 
nect an immense number of ideas, with the 
few facts which do transpire in the country ; 
| but a mind of quiet and lethargic character, 
| sinks into nothingness, and one of still lower 
| grade, active only for loose or malicious 
purposes, fills up the void in social commu- 
| nion, with inferences falsely drawn, uncharit- 
| able inuendos ingeniously thrown out, and 
conclusions too frequently both injurious and 
1 unjust. 3 
I have said that a great deal may be made 
| of the few facts which do transpire in the 
country. “Impossible!” exclaims the pre- 
cocious youth, learned alone in civic lore. 
“You only hear the news once a week, and 
as to your facts, what are they? The re- 
| turn of the swallow, seedtime, and harvest, 
| a shower of rain, or a thunder storm; and 
| what is all this to the community at large ?” 
| I answer, it isa great deal to those indivi- 
‘| duals who choose to reflect. It is true we 
|| are sometimes a week later than you, in 
| learning what have been the movements of 
a certain foreign army, that a cabinet minis- 
ter has been dismissed, and that an elope- 
ment has taken place in high life. There 
are even facts similar to these, which occur 
without ever reaching us at all, which is a 
proof that they are of as little importance to 
|| us, as the building of our rooks, the scatter- 
| ing of our grain, or the reaping of our corn 
;; to you. You snatch up the Morning Post, 
and read of this interesting elopement; we 
learn with as much interest that the kite has 
| seized our favourite dove. You read thata 
once popular statesman has been over- 
thrown, by the strength of opposing party ; 
we hear that a former servant of our own, 
has been dismissed from his place. You 
read of the dismemberment of Poland; we 
are startled with the intelligence, a few 
hours earlier, that the fox has been making 
'| dreadful ravages amongst our poultry. 
What follows? Our conclusions are at 
least as philosophical as yours, and if you 
take time to reflect, it is most probable they 
will both amount to this—that the weak 
‘| must be the victims of the strong, all the 


5 e,e mee 
world over; that propensities to rapine, 


— 


—— 


ee Ee 


| cruelty, and wrong, are permitted to deface | 


the glory of the earth, for reasons which 
neither you nor we can understand; and 
that man, when he boasts too proudly of his 
superiority in the creation, forgets that in 
the most malignant and injurious attribute 
of the brute he is at least his equal. 

And then our returning swallows, our 
seedtime, and harvest, our rains and thun- 
der storms, of which you think so little; why 
they supply us with inexhaustible food for 
deep anxiety, earnest calculation, ardent 
hope, and trembling fear; and ‘sometimes 
with gratitude as warm as if the success 
which crowned our labours, was visibly and 
palpably bestowed immediately by the hand 
of the Giver of all good. We hail the birds 
of spring, as the blessed messengers of hope 
—the sced is scattered in faith—the harvest 
is reaped in joy—the rains descend, and-we 
give thanks for the opening of those foun- 
tains, whose source, and whose seal is above 
—the thunders roll, and we bow before the 
terrors of the Almighty. 

Man may, unquestionably, enjoy the same 
sensations in the city. Surrounded by the 
work of human hands, he may look up and 
bless the power which bestowed such facul- 
ties and means upon his creatures; but it 
is a fact which few will pretend to deny, 
that the more the mind is interested and oc- 
cupied with artificial things, the more it is 
carried away from the truth that is in nature ; 
and the greater the number of objects which 


intervene between us and the great First | 


Cause of all, the less fixed and reverential 
are our views of heaven. We know by rea- 


soning that God is no more present in the | 
rolling thunder than in the social meeting, | 
or the secret thought; but our impressions |) 


are often stronger and deeper than our rea- 
soning: and when we stand alone in the si- 
Jent night, and look up to the starry heavens ; 


when we watch the play of the lightning, or || 
listen to the roaring blast; when we gaze || 


upon the wide expanse of heaving ocean, or 
on the peaceful bosom of the lake, slumber- 
ing in its mountain cradle at the feet of its 
majestic guardians, whose brows are in the 


sky, mantled with clouds, or crowned with |, 


golden glory; when we watch the silvery 


fall of summer’s evening dew, the sunset | 


in the west, or the moon’s uprising over the | 


eastern hills, we naturally look upon these in- | 


\ 


Fae id pce narcnreechanesccenaeas aasctaave sty 2-0) 


- P si e 
i a dA i pcp Te a A toe tet aa ill Dn ta tantra et appsen g 
a ne 


THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 


teresting phenomena as immediately influ- 
enced by an omnipotent hand, and advancing 
one step farther, penetrate within the veil, 
and find ourselves alone with God. 

With regard to the mere amusements of 
the country, it is very natural for townspeo- 
ple—such as are accustomed to games of 
skill and hazard—to dress-parties, plays, 
and concerts, to ask in what they can possi- 
bly consist. Let us in the first place observe 
a group of children at play beneath the 
flowery hawthorn, their cheeks suffused with 
the rosy hue of health, and their bright eyes 
sparkling with that inward joy which natu- 
rally animates the infant mind. Nobody 
can tell what they are playing at—they do 
not know themselves. They have no names 
or set rules by which their gambols are re- 
strained ; but when they start off from their 
sequestered retreat, bounding over the grass 
like young fawns, you see at once that 
it is the fresh air, the glowing health, and 
above all, the glorious liberty of the country 
which constitutes their enjoyment. Then 
they have an intimate and familiar acquaint- 
ance with every thing around them, with 
the woods and the winding paths, the song 
of the different birds, and the course of the 
streams that come down from the hills. Up- 
on all or most of these the seasons have con- 
siderable influence, and the welcome ap- 
pearance of spring, the withering of autumn, 
the heat of summer, and the winter’s snow, 
have trains of association in the youthful 
mind, which supply them with a perpetual 
source of amusement, blended with instruc- 
tion. Added to which, they not unfrequent- 
ly have the care of domestic animals, and 
feel almost ‘as much interest in their fate as 
in that of their fellow-creatures. ‘They soon 
learn that their kindness allures, and that 
their rebukes repel. This makes them ob- 


“servant of the happiness and the misery of 


the creatures committed to their charge, and 
lays the foundation of’ social and benevolent 
feelings, which continue with them through 
the rest of theirlives. As the mind acquires 
strength and begins to investigate, what a 
field of inquiry then lies before them—the 
fall of the rains—the density of the atmos- 
phere—the gathering of clouds—the fertility 
of the earth—the principles of vegetation 


and vitality—the production of flowers and 
fruits—the source of streams—the planetary 
system—chemical agency—and the study of 
electricity, that mighty and mysterious pow- 
er, which operates through earth and air 


ful and sublime phenomena in nature. 


Are these amusements of a kind to be | 
neglected or contemned by a rational and in- || 


tellectual being? Are they not rather such 


as we ought to seek every possible means | 


of rendering familiar and attractive to the 
youthful mind? And surely there can be 


no means more likely than to retire some- || 


times within the bosom of nature, where the 
development of Almighty power is obvious 
above, around, and beneath us. 

But above almost all other peculiarities 
belonging to a country life, 1 would place 
that homefeeling which has the power 


through the whole course of our lives to |} 


bring back the wandering affections, and 
centre them in one point of space—one point 
of importance, to a very limited portion of 
the community, but a portion consisting of 
our nearest and dearest connexions. In 
towns there can be comparatively little of 
this feeling. A man steps out of his door 
immediately upon common ground. The 
house he lives in is precisely like his neigh- 
bour’s, one of a number which he returns to 
without attachment, and leaves without re- 
gret. But inthe country, not only the grass 
we tread on, the paths, the trees, the birds 
that sing above our heads, and the flowers 
that bloom beneath our feet, but the very 
atmosphere around us, seem to be our own. 
There is a feeling of possession in our fields, 


our gardens, and our home, which nothing 


but a cruel separation can destroy; and 
when absent, far away upon the deep sea, 
travelling in foreign lands, or driven from 
that home for ever, we pine to trace again 
the familiar walks, and wonder whether the 
woods and the green lawn are looking the 


same as when they received our last fare- | 


well. In the haunts of busy life, the music 
of our native streams comes murmuring 
again upon our ear; we pause beneath the 
cage of the prisoned bird, because its voice 


is the same as that which cheered our infan- |} 


55 | 


ne  O 


| 
| 


in a manner yet but partially understood, || 
though producing some of the most wonder- |} 


Sonat ar nS RN TRIDSTrpreenenney meeneeaereeeeereememecerees cree eee re a ee 


ee eee a 


ee ee Pe ee SO ne 


56 


cy; and we love the flowers of a distant 
country when they resemble those which 
bloomed in our own. 

There are other wanderers besides those 
who stray through foreign realms—wander- 
ers from the ways of God. Perchance we 
have spurned the restrictions of parental 
authority, and cast away the early visita- 
tions of a holier love; but the homefeeling 
which neither change of place nor character 
can banish from our bosoms, renews the 
memory of our social ties, and draws us 
back to the deserted hearth. Along with 
that memory, associated with the soothing 
of affection which we have lived to want, 
and the wisdom of sage counsel which ex- 
perience has proved true, the tide of convic- 
tion rushes in upon the burdened heart, and 


the prodigal rousing himself from the stupor 


of despair, exclaims, “I will arise and go to 
my father !” 

It is difficult for those whose hearts and 
homes are in the city, fully to appreciate the 
enjoyment arising {ror rural scenery ; but 
there are others whose homes are there, yet 
whose hearts are not wholly absorbed in city 
news, and scenes, and customs. These 
have probably, at some time or other of their 
lives, known what it was, not merely to 
make an excursion to Richmond, Hamp- 
stead; or Windsor, but to go far away into 
the country, amongst the hills, and the val- 
leys, where the rattling of wheels, or the 
crack of the coachman’s whip, was never 
heard. What, let me ask, were their sensa- 
tions, as they rose higher and higher up the 
side of the mountain, at every step taking in 
a wider view of the landscape, until it lay 
beneath them like a garden, in which the 
ancient woods were fairy groves, and the 
rivers threads of silver, now seen, now lost, 
but never heard, even in their floods and 
falls, at that far height. What are the feel- 
ings of the traveller, when standing on the 
topmast ridge, a mere speck in that stupen- 
dous solitude, while the fresh breezes of an 
unknown atmosphere sweep past him, and 
he muses upon the past, and feels the im- 
pressive truth, that not only the firm rock on 
which he stands, but the ‘surrounding hills, 
with their beetling brows, and rugged pin- 
nacles, and hollow caves, are the same as 
on that great day when the waters of the 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


deluge disappeared from the face of the 
earth—that the art of man is impotent 
against the imperishable fabric upon which 
he rests—that the ploughshare never has 
been there—nor track of wandering beast, 
nor nest of soaring bird, nor hum of laden 
bee—nothing but the winds, the rolling 
clouds, the lightning and thunder, those tre- 
mendous agents of eternal Power, before 
whom the boasted sovereign of creation lies 
trembling in the dust. 

What are his feelings when he reflects 
that such as this new and mighty world 
appears to him, such it will remain when he 
and his, with their ambitious hopes and en- 
vied honours, are buried and forgotten! 
These are sensations peculiar to the situa- 
tion, which words are inadequate to describe. 
Too deep for utterance, too powerful for 
language, they teach a wisdom more pro- 
found than is to be acquired in all the 
schools of man’s devise. I would ask again, 
how the wanderer on the mountain’s. sum- 


mit has looked back to the narrow sphere | 
of social life which he has been wont to call | 


the world? Its laws, conventional but arbi- 


trary, by which his past conduct has been | 


influenced, what are they here? Scarcely 
more important than those which regulate 
the movements of a community of insects, 
confined within the limits of a little mound 
of earth. Where now is the tremendous 


and potent voice of public opinion, resound- |} 


ing in authoritative tones from house to 
house, from heart to heart? Upon the 
mountain’s brow, beneath the blue arch of 
heaven, it is silent, lost, and forgotten. 


Where are the toils, the anxieties, the heart- | 


aches, which consume the vitality of our ex- 
istence, in the lower region of our sordid 
and selfish avocations? Already they have 
assumed a different character ; and, despis- 
ing the nothingness—the worse than no- 
thingness of their ultimate end, he resolves 
to give them to the winds, and henceforth 
to live for some more exalted and noble 
purpose. 

There is no danger that man should feel 
himself too little, or his Maker too great. 
If there were, he would do well to confine 


himself to a sphere, in which nothing is so | 


obvious as the operation of man’s ingenuity 
and power. But since we are all too much 


THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 


engaged in the strife, and the bustle, and 
the eagerness which is necessary to insure 
an average of material comforts; since indi- 
viduality of character is too much sacrificed 
to the arbitrary rules of polished life; since 
by associating exclusively with man in an 
artificial state of being, the generous too 
frequently become selfish, the gentle hard- 


ened, and the noble debased: it is good to 


shake off occasionally the unnatural bondage 
by which the aspiring spirit is kept down, 
to go forth into the woods and the wilds, 
and to feel, though but for a day or an hour, 
that man was born for something better 
than to be the slave of his own bodily wants. 
Bach time that we experience this real in- 
dependence of mind, we ascend one step 
higher in the scale of moral existence ; and 
if circumstance or dire necessity should pre- 
vent the frequent recurrence of such feel- 
ings, we may at least secure a solid and 


| lasting good, by learning in this way to 


appreciate the mental elevation of others. 
I am not, even on this subject, so blind an 


| enthusiast, as to attempt to support my ar- 
| gument in favour of rural life on the ground 
| of the greater appearance of vice in the 
| town than in the country; because I am 
| one of those who believe that the vacancy 
| of mind, the ‘gross bodily existence, the 
| moral apathy, which too frequently prevail 
| amongst persons who lead an isolated life, 


are quite as much at variance with the 
Divine law, as vices which are more obvious, 
and which consequently fall under the cogni- 
zance of human statutes. If amongst con- 
gregated multitudes we are shocked to find so 
much of riotous indulgence, treachery, out- 
rage, and crime of every description, we are, 
on the other hand, cheered with the earnest 
zeal, the perseverance, the disinterestedness, 
which are brought into exercise to counter- 
act these evils. While in the country, 
where men sit still and wonder alike at both 
extremes, the average of moral good is cer- 
tainly not higher, because vice being less 


| obvious, the fear of its fatal consequences 
| does not stimulate to those meritorious ex- 
! ertions which proceed from true Christian 


love. The country may be abused as well 
as the town; and since the inhabitants of 
both, for the most part, fall into their stations 
from circumstances rather than inclination, 


under the same roof, thrown entirely upon aay 


57 


or if from inclination, settle themselves at a | 
time of life when they are incapable of 
judging of the privileges peculiar to either, 
it is not to be supposed that they will always | 
make the best use of the advantages around | 
them; and those which abound in great 
number and variety in the country, certainly 
add weight to the moral culpability of such |} 
individuals as live stupidly beneath the open || 
sky, in the midst of fields, and woods, and |} 
gardens, without exhibiting more mental || 
energy than is displayed by their own flocks || 
and herds. brhine 

After remarking with regret upon the 
inertness and apathy of disposition too ob- || 
vious in the country, we must in common 
justice observe, that where there does exist 
sufficient mental energy for the display of | 
peculiar traits of character, such traits have |} 
a degree of strength and originality seldom | 
found amongst the inhabitants of the city, 
where social institutions have a tendency to 
bring individuals together upon common 
terms, and thus to render them more like 
each other; and where the frequent contact 
of beings similarly circumstanced rubs off 
their eccentricities, and wears them down 
to the level of ordinary men. 

The friendships and acquaintances of the 
country are formed upon a system essentially | 
different from that which holds so¢iety to- || 
gether in more compact and congregated || 
masses. The ordinary style of visiting in 
towns does little towards making people ac- 
quainted with each other. Commonplace |} 
remarks upon general topics—-remarks which || 
derive no distinctive character from the lips || 
which utter them, fill up the weary hours | 
of each succeeding visit; while the same 
education, and the same style of living, are 
observable in every different set, of which | 
each individual is but a part—separate but 
not distinct. But in the country, where peo- 
ple meet more casually, and with less of 
common purpose and feeling, where they 
often spend a considerable time together 


—— < 


a 
their own resources, and unacquainted with || 
any general or prevailing topic of conversa- 

tion, they necessarily become more inti- 
mately acquainted with each other’s natural | 
character, with their individual bias of dis- |! 
position, and peculiar trains of thought. | 
| 


ee 3 


a a SS 2 
hme — te 


re nen ene Seaman 


58 


THE POETRY OF 


Dwelling apart from the tide of public 
opinion, they know nothing~ of its influence 
or power, and having established their own 
opinions, formed for themselves from their 
personal observation, their sentiments and re- 
marks are characterised by their originality, 
and their affections by their depth. They 
are in fact, though less polished, less artifi- 
cial, and less learned in mere facts than 
their brethren and sisters of the city, infi- 
nitely more poetical, because their expres- 
sions convey more meaning, their sentiments 
are more genuine, and their feelings more 
fresh from the heart. 

In speaking of the intimate knowledge of 
individual character which rural life affords 
abundant opportunities of obtaining, we 
must not omit to mention the sum of happi- 
ness derived from this knowledge when it ex- 


tends amongst our domestics, labourers, and 


dependent poor. The master of a family in 
the country resembles a little feudal lord, and 
if he makes a generous use of his authority, 
may be served as faithfully, and obeyed as 
implicitly through love, as any old English 
baron ever was through fear. The agricul- 
tural labourer becomes attached to the soil 
which he cultivates. He feels as if he had 
a property in the fields of his master, and 
this feeling extends not only to the produce 
of his toil, but, through maay links of natural 
connection, to the interest of his master and 
the general good of his family ; while on the 
other hand, his own wants and afflictions, 
and those of his wife and children, are made 
known through the kind visitations of charity, 
and soothed and relieved, with a familiarity 
and unison of feeling which goes almost as 
far as almsgiving towards alleviating the 
distresses of the poor. There can be no dis- 
trust between families that have dwelt to- 
gether upon the same soil, in the mutual re- 
lation of master and servant, from genera- 
tion to generation. Both parties are inti- 
mately acquainted with the characters they 
have to deal with, and each esteeming the 


other’s worth, can look upon their little | her attendant nymphs. 


peculiarities with kindness, and even with 
affection; while the mutual confidence, good 
will, and clear understanding which subsist 
between them, constitute a sure foundation 
for substantial and lasting comfort. 

These advantages, peculiar to rural life, 


rn 


| 


may appear almost too homely and common- 
place to be admitted under the character of 
poetical; but in their relation to the social 
affections, and to the principles of happiness 
—that happiness which is rational, intellec- 
tual, and moral, they are in themselves 
highly poetical, and must often be recurred 
to with tenderness and interest ; at the same 
time that they supply the bard with subjects 
of pathos and pictures of delight. 


LIFE. | . 


Perhaps it may better please the fanciful |! 


reader to turn to themes of a more imagin- 
ary and unsubstantial nature, of which we 
find an endless variety in the associations 
afforded by rural habits, pursuits, and scenes. 
We have observed in the former part of this 
work, that scarcely a beast, a bird, a tree, 
a flower, or any other visible object exists, 
without an ideal as wellas areal character ; 
but we have not yet entered upon that re- 
gion of poetic thought which is peopled with 
the imaginary beings of heathen supersti- 
tion, and which to the mind that is deeply 
impressed with the beautiful imagery of 
classic lore, is perpetually associated with ru- 
ral scenery. No sooner are the gates of fan- 
cy opened for the admission of these ethereal 
beings, than we behold them gliding in upon 
our favorite haunts, now floating upon the 
sea of air, dancing in the sunbeams, or re- 
posing upon beds of violets ; and then rush- 
ing forth upon the destructive elements, 
riding on the crested waves, or directing the 
bolts of death. 
Wandering in our fields and gardens, 
Flora, with hx» ever-blooming cheek and 
coronet of unfading flowers, becomes our 
sweet companion, while with her ambrosial 
pencil, dipped in the hues of heaven, she 
tints the velvet leaves of the rose, scatters 
perfume over the snowy bosom of the lily, 


or turns in playful tenderness to meet the |; 
smiles of her wayward and wandering lover, | 


the sportive and uncertain Zephyrus. We 
penetrate into the depth of the forest, and 


the vestal Huntress flits across our path with }, 
While seated under | 


the cool shadow of the leafy trees, or stoop- 
ing over the margin of the crystal stream, 
the Dryads bind their flowing hair. The 
harvest smiles before us with the glad pro- 


mise of the waning year, and joyfully the yel- | 


low grain is gathered in; but we see the 


Sea pein tig ease ore ee 


at ea ent, pe ecatenee nraenee eee are aan 


ee 


eee Sel i Siaeee..i=2 


i 


— 


ee Eee ae 


| 


THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 


| deity of rural plenty, with her unextinguish- 
able torch and crown of golden ears, wan- 
dering from field to field, heart-stricken, and 
alone; too mortal in her sufferings—too 
desolate in her divinity. We hail the purple 
morning, Aurora rises in her rosy car, driv- 
ing her snowy steeds over the cloud-capped 
mountains, separating the hills from their 
misty canopy, and scattering flowers and dew 
over her fresh untrodden pathway through 
the verdant valleys. We turn to the glori- 
ous sun as he rises from his couch of golden 
waves, and ask the inspiration of Apollo for 
the verse or for the lyre. We sail upon the 
ruffled sea, where the Nereides, sporting 
with the dolphins, lave their shining hair ; 
or where Neptune, striking his trident on the 
foaming waters, bids the deep be still. We 
hear the bellowing of the stormy blast, and 
call on AXolus to spare us; or we listen to 
the thunder as it rolls above our heads, echo- 
ing from shore to shore, and tremble lest the 
forked lightning should burst forth from the 
sovereign hand of Jove. 

Fanciful as these associations are, (almost 
too fanciful to afford us any real enjoyment,) 
they unquestionably supply the poet with 
images of beauty not to be found in real 
life; and they have also an important claim 
upon our consideration, from the place they 
occupy both in ancient and modern litera- 
ture; as well as from the effect which this 
system of imperfect and dangerous theology 


produced, in promoting the refinements of 


art, and softening the habits and feelings of 
a barbarous people. 

It is pleasant to turn from such visionary 
sources of gratification to those which are 
more tangible and true—to the smypathy 
which every feeling mind believes it possi- 
ble to experience in nature. There is no 
state of feeling to which we may not find 
something in the elements, or in the natural 
world, so nearly corresponding, as to give us 
the idea of companionship in our joys and 
sorrows. ‘True, it would be more congenial 
to our wishes, agul we find this companion- 
ship amongst our fellow-creatures ; but who 
has not asked for it in vain? and turning to 
the woods, and the winds, and the blue skies, 
has not believed for a moment there was 
more sympathy in them than in the heart of 
man. 


There is scarcely any human being so 
selfish as to wish to feed upon joy alone: 
and what a privilege it 1s, separated from 
those who could rejoice wih us, that we can 
share our happiness with nature! The soar- 
ing lark, the bounding deer, and the sportive 
lamb, aaiiuced with a joy (ie ours, become 
our brethieil and our sisters ; while the 
same light buoyant spirit that fills our bo- 
soms, smiles upon us from the shining hea- 
vens, glows beneath us in the fruitful earth, 
or whispers around us in the fresh glad oales 
of spring. But, under the pressure of grief; 
this sympathy is most perceptible and most 
availing, because sorrow has a greater ten- 
dency thay joy. to excite the imazination, 
and thus it multiplies its own associations by 
identifying itself with every thing that wears 
the slightest shadow of gloom. 

I will not say that the world in general is 
more productive of images of sadness than 
of pleasure; but from the misuse of our own 
faculties, and the consequent tendency of 
our own minds, we are more apt to look for 
such amongst the objects around us; and 
thus in our daily observation, passing over 
what is lovely, and genial, and benizn, we 
fix our minds upon the desolating floods, the 
anticipated storm, the early blight, the can- 
kered blossom, the faded leaf, the broken 
bough, or the premature decay of autumn 
fruit. This, however, is no fiult of nature’s, 
but our own; nor does it prove avything 
against the argument, that, whether liappy 
or miserable, we may find a responding 
voice in nature, to echo back our gladness, 
and to answer to our sighs; that every feel- 
ing of which we are capable, in its purest 
and least vitiated state, may meet with simili- 
tude, and companionship, and association in 
the natural world; and above all, that he 
who desires to rise out of the low cares of 
artificial life, whose soul aspires above the 
gross elements of mere bodily existence, and 
whose highest ambition is to render up that 
soul, purified rather than polluted, may find 
in nature a congenial, faithful, and untiring 
friend. 

I cannot better conclude tliese remarks, 
than by quoting a passage from the writings 
of one, who possessed the enviable art of 
combining science with sublimity, and philo- 
sophy with poetic feeling. 


— Oe ———— eeeeeeeeSeSGSGE 
I BEE IESE STE DIET ———— ees Oo e——T——————— 
Diy r 


| 


ee 8 A ET Nees ee a eee Ores ess 


eee 


+/ 60 


PAIS or 


7 7 ~ - ~~ ~ —— - — = — - a= - = ~ nr i i ee ee vers 
i Ee a a a ET ST SS i ORT EP a EE PLT TRIE AT ATE =e 


— 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


“Nature,” says Sir Humphry Davy, 
“never deceives us; the rocks, the moun- 


| tains, the streams, always speak the same 


language ; a shower of snow may bide the 
verdant woods in spring, a thunder storm 
may render the blue limpid streams foul and 
turbulent; but these effects are rare and 
transient—in a few hours, or at least days, 
all the sources of beauty are renovated. 
And nature affords no continued trains of 
misfortunes and miseries, such as depend 
upon the constitution of humanity, no hopes 
for ever blighted in the bud, no beings full 
of life, beauty, and promise, taken from us 


|.in the prime of youth. Her fruits are all 
| balmy, bright, and sweet; she afiords none 
| of those blighted ones so common in the life 


of man, aid so like the fabled apples of the 
Dead Sea, fresh and beautiful to the sight, 
but when tasted, full of bitterness and ashes.” 


eS 


THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 


In turning our attention to the poetry of 
pariating, 
forms the first connecting link between the 
physical and the iateilectual world. So far 
as painting is a faithful representation of ex- 
ternal nature, it belongs to the sphere of the 
senses; but as it holds intimate connection 
with some of the noblest efforts and attec- 
tions of the human mind, it is scarcely infe- 
rior to the art of poetry itself, in the value it 
derives from the diffusion of poetic feeling, 
through the countless varieties of style and 
character, in which it is exhibited to man- 
kind. | 
The poetry of painting is perhaps more 
felt, and less understood, than that of any 
other subject to which we can apply our 
thoughts; nor is it easy to define what is the 
nature of the charm by which we are fasci- 
nated on beholiding a picture in perfect ac- 
cordance with our taste, especially as this 
taste varies so much in different individuals, 
and even in the same becomes more select 
in its gratifications, in proportion as it is 
more cultivated and refined. 

That the poetry of painting is not mainly 
dependent upon the choice of subjects is 
clear, from the most simple and familiar 


we enter upon a subject which. 


sccnes being rendered poetically beautiful 
by the pencil of an able artist ; yet there are 
lines of demarcation beyond which even 
genius dare not venture, and which cannot 
be transgressed without the most glaring 
violation of good taste. It is where the as- 
sociations are such as are not only vulgar in 
themselves, but totally destitute of any claim 
upon the feelings or affections of the mind. 
Nor is it in the representation of scenes the 
most gross and degraded (though such do 
little credit to the taste of the painter) ; yet 
in them the violent passions which agitate 
our nature are frequently most powerfully || 
and strikingly exhibited. Look, for exam- 
ple, upon a representation of the lowest stage |; 
of intoxication, and surely the pencil of the 
painter can pourtray no subject more loath- 
some and repulsive; yet even here the asso- 
ciations are not necessarily such as are alto- 
gether debarred from connection with refined 
intellectual speculations. In contemplating 
such a picture, we think immediately of the 
high capabilities of man, and of the danger- 
ous profanation and abuse of his natural 
powers, of the spotless infancy of the being 
before us, the love that watched over his 
youth, the hopes that were centered in his 
manhood, and that now lie grovelling be- 
neath him in his fall. This class of subjects 
then is not entirely beyond the limits of the 
field of poetry, though it certainly requires 
some stretch of fancy to prove them to be 
within it; yet there is another class so de- 
cidedly and irrevocably excluded, that it 
may not be uninteresting to mark the differ- 
ence between them, and of these a single in- 
stance will be sufficient. 

I remember seeing in an exhibition of 
paintings at Manchester, a picture of a huge 
red brick cotton-mill, so well executed, and 
so appropriately placed, as to look very 
handsome in its way; and no doubt that 
way was all-sufficient to the owner, who had 
a train of sweet and pleasant local associa- 
tions with this picture, enjoyed snugly to 
himself, which if they were not poetical, had 
most probably a weightier charm, and one 
which he would not have exchanged for the. 
lyre of Apollo. The surface of the picture 


was almost entirely covered with the brick 
building, and by its side was the all impor- 
tant engine-house, with tall spiral chimney 


pointing to the sky, but alas! with no hea- 
venward purpose. Jt was the picture of a 
manufactory, and nothing more—most pro- 
bably the owner wanted nothing more. 
There was not, as there might have been, 
a broken foreground, denoting the rugged 


| course of one of those polluted streams 
| which murmur on (for what can still the 


voice of nature?) with the same melody as 
in its native woods, before the click of rat- 
tling machinery broke in upon the harmony 
of man’s existence. There was no pale girl, 
with darkened brow and dejected form, re- 
turning to her most unnatural labours, a liv- 
ing and daily sacrifice to the triumphs of 
national prosperity ; there was not even that 
deep and turbid stream, that dense and per- 
petually rising fountain of thick smoke, burst- 
ing, as if with indignation, from the gross 


' confines of its narrow birthplace, first dart- 


ing upwards in one compact and sable pil- 
lar, as if from the crater of a volcano, and 
then folding and unfolding its dark volume, 
until, assuming a more ethereal character, 
it floats away upon the gale, and ambitious 
of a higher union, mingles at last with the 
vapours that sail alone the purer regions of 
the sky—no, there was nothing in this pic- 
ture but a cotton-mill; and the wealthy 
owner, with a praiseworthy feeling of grati- 
tude and respect for the origin of his pros- 
perity and distinction in the world, had done 
his best to immortalize the object that was 
not only the most important, but the dearest 
to him on earth. Yet notwithstanding this 
was, in the opinion of at least one individual, 
a picture of great merit, it was unquestion- 
ably of that class to which no single poetical 
idea could by any possibility be attached. 
It is true that such a building as was here 
represented, need not be without its intellec- 
tual associations. It might give rise to some 
of the most profound speculations relative to 
trade, commerce, and the wealth of nations; 
all that I maintain is, that this picture could 
not in any way call forth the passions or 
affections of our nature, or awaken those 
emotions of the soul which constitute the 
very essence of poetry. _ 

In order to render the poetry of painting 
a subject more tractable in an unskilful and 
inexperienced hand, it will be necessary to 
consider it under its three different cha- 


THE POETRY 


RASS eo ES Se StS A Se a BRS a eR ee a NC RR a TS EE een SS 


which she has paid the highest price and 


OF PAINTING. 


racters—portrait, landscape, and historical 
painting. Of these three, portrait painting 
is decidedly the least calculated for the dis- 
play of poetical feeling, not only because it 
is generally practised under the arbitrary 
will of those who possess neither taste nor 
understanding in the fine arts, but because 
there are so few subjects really wortliy in 
themselves, and these few are too frequent- 
ly beyond the reach of the artist; while the 
rubicund and wealthy citizen, having grown 
sleek upon turtle soup, after retiring with lis 
rosy consort to their Belle Vue, or Prospect 
Cottage, in the suburbs of the town, deems 
it a suitable and gratifying appropriation of 
some portion of his hard-earned wealth, to 
employ one of the first artists of the day in 
making duplicates of forms, which a full- 
sized canvas is scarcely wide enouch to con- 
tain, and faces, in which the expression of 
cent. per cent., and the distinctions of white 
and brown sauce, are the only visible cha- 
racteristics. 

While the painter is at work, sacrificing 
allthat is noble in his art to the sad necessi- 
ty for sordid gain, the gentleman insists up- 
on a blue coat and buff waist-coat. but above 
all, upon a gold headed cane, which neces- 
sarily mars the picture with a bright yellow 
spot full in the centre. This however isa 
trifle by comparison, for the buttons help to 
carry off the glare of the gold, and the artist 
revenges himself by making the hand ap- 
proximate to the same colour. It is in at- 
tempting to delineate the august person of 
the lady, that his skill and his taste are put 
to the severest test. With consternation in 
his countenance, he eyes the subject before 
him, and in the first agony of despair, que- 
ries within himself whether he cannot really 
afford to lose the offered reward. He ven- 
tures to remonstrate with great delicacy on 
some particular portions of the dress. Put 
the lady is inexorable. It is a dress for 


must look well. Money rules the day and 
the painter, covering his palette with double 
portions of red and yellow, commences with 
his task. Upon the head of the fair sitter is 
a pink turban, interwoven with a massive 
gold chain, surmounting a profusion of flaxen 
ringlets, in the midst of which twinkle out 
two small blue eyes, faintly shaded by thin 


——@—— 


1 


|| 62 


——— 


eyelashes of the palest yellow, while cheeks 


| that might vie with the deepest peony, and 


Se RN Se SNe ee ey 


Se SSS SSS ee ee EE 


—<—<—<——————— EEE 


a figure upon which is stretched, almost 
without a fold, a brilliant orange dress of 


| costly silk, make up the rest of the picture. 


It is apon the same principle, and with 
similar restrictions, that portrait painting is 
generally practised in the present day. 
But let the painter rule his subject, and the 
case will be widely different. He who is 
worthy of his art sees at once what are its 
capabilities. His imagination immediately 
places the object before ‘him in some appro- 
priate situation. He assigns to it a charac- 
ter of which it may be wholly unconscious— 
one to which it was by nature peculiarly 
adapted, though circumstances may have 
consigned it-to a totally different destiny. 

Perhaps there is no class of pictures in 
which the painter’s waat of taste is more 
frequently displayed, than in the portraits 
of children. We see them standing like 
wooden images, holding in one hand an 
orange never meant to be eaten, or flowers 
which it is evident they have not gathered ; 
their hair smoothly combed, their frocks un- 
ruffled, and their blue morocco slippers un- 
sullied by the dust of the earth. In short 
they are always dressed in their best to be 
painted, and the mother is often as solicitous 
about the pink sash, as about the likeness. 
The subject is unquestionably one of great 
difficulty, because the beauty of childhood 
consisting chiefly in the light easy move- 
ment of the playful limbs, it is almost impos- 
sible to make a child perfectly natural when 
at rest, and not sleeping; and it is here that 
the skill of the able artist is exercised in 
carrying on our thoughts to what the child 
will the next moment be doing. If he does 
not place in its hand a bunch of flowers, he 
throws into his picture a vivid atmosphere, 
in which we are sure that flowers are grow- 
ing; and by slightly ruffling the fair hair, 
letting loose the folds of the dress, quicken- 
ing the expression of the eye, and giving a 
playfulness to the almost open lips, an idea 
of life and motion is conveyed, and we are 
deluded into the belief that the very next 
moment the child will start off in pursuit of 
the butterfly, and that he will bring home 
with him a handful of flowers gathered from 
tie gorgeous carpet of nature, or a wounded 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


eave 


bird found in his woodland rambles, to place 
on the maternal bosom, which has so fondly 
cherished him, that: he believes it to have 
benevolence enough for all the wants and 
sufferings in the world. 

It is possible that the same artist may be 
called in to paint the portrait of a poor gen- 
tleman, who having nothing else to bequeath 
to his children, is prevailed upon to leave 
them a likeness of the form they have been 
accustomed to venerate. The painter finds 
him in a mean and humble dwelling, dressed. | 
in a manner that too plainly shows his long 
acquaintance with urgent wants and narrow 
means. Yet in the noble outline of the face, 
the fair and finely moulded forehead, when 
for a moment its wrinkles are smoothed 
down, but above all, in the symmetry of the 
mouth, and the graceful motion of the lips, - 
he reads the sad history of that gradual fall , 
from high station and noble fortune, which: 
has never through the whole of a long life 
been able to degrade the soul; and in paint- 
ing the portrait of this poor ‘gentleman, he 
makes a picture worthy of a place amongst 
the aristocracy of the land. 

Or he may be required to exercise his art 
in painting the likeness of one of the cele- 
brated belles of the day. It is possible that 
the arbitrary laws of fashion may have con- 
cealed the. beauty of a form that is perfectly 
Grecian in its, contour. The painter casts 
down the stately and unnatural fabric from 
the head, and leaving a few dishevelled 
ringlets to wander over the snowey temples, | 
binds up the rest of the hair so gracefully 
behind, as just to leave visible the noble pil- 
lar of the neck, which proudly supports the | 
whole. It is also possible that the rigid 
rules of polished society, or early discipline, 
or sad experience, may have rendered cold, 
constrained, or artificial in its expression, a 
countenance that was originally capable of 
exhibiting the deepest passions, and the fin- 
est sensibilities of our nature. The artist 
whose eye is quickened to an almost super- 
natural acuteness of perception, sees all this ; 
and in painting the portrait of one who is by 
compulsion a mere fine lady, he invests it 
with the beauty and the pathos of a heroine. 

Nor is it in the skillful management of 
expression alone that the poetry of this art 


consists. Though this is unquestionably | 


| 
i 
' 


_the most important, there are minor points, 
which cannot be neglected without so glar- 
ing a violation of good taste that the eye is 
offended ; and as we have often had occa- 
-sion to remark,'no sooner are the senses 


-unpleasantly affected, than the powers of. 


the mind are arrested in their agreeable 
exercise, and the poetic illusion is totally 


| destroyed. In the choice of costume, it is 


| highly essential to the poetical charm of the 
portrait, that every thing wearing the cha- 
/racter of constraint or conceit should be 
avoided. All those striking peculiarities 
which belong only to a class of beings 
whose feelings and avocations are entirely 
separate from the sphere of high men- 
tal refinement, or intellectual power, will be 
rejected by an artist of good taste. The 
coarse habit of the monk may be made sub- 
| servient to the poetical interest of a portrait, 
because it is associated in our minds with 
ideas of reflection, study, and strict mental 
discipline ; even that of a peasant is admis- 
sible, because his hardy frame may be aui- 
mated by the bold independence and rude 


enerzy of a mountaineer; but he who | 


would paint a butcher or a harlequin in 
their characteristic costume, must forfeit 
every pretension to the poetry of his art. 

The local partiality of the Dutch painters 
has rendered this error strikingly conspicu- 
ous in some of their historical pieces. 
Whatever may be the merits of this school 
of artists, the national prejudice which re- 
tained the familiar costume, habits, and cus- 
toms of their own peculiar people, even 
when gepresenting the higher scenes and 
circumstances of life, proves them to have 
been but little qualified for the most noble 
and interesting branch of their art. 

Besides the choice of costume, and of far 
higher importance, is the proper adjustment 


| of colours, and other mechanical branches 


of the art of painting, which cannot properly 
be discussed in a chapter on poetry, but 
which are of unspeakable importance in 
producing that delightful combination of 
-form and colour by which the eye is so en- 
| tirely gratified as to repose in perfect en- 
joyment and to leave the imagination to 
Wander as it will. 

Entering upon the subject of landscape 


THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 


banks of this stream or pool. 


specify in what the poetry of the art consists. 
There are certain fundamental principles, 
from whence our ideas of the beauty of na- 
ture are derived, which the slightest sketch 
is capable of illustrating, but which cannot 
be neglected without offence even to the 
most indifferent beholder. Of these princi- 
ples, light and shade are the most important 
and conspicuous. Thus two objects, one to 
receive the rays of light, and another to re- 
ceive the shadow of the first, are sufficient 
to constitute a picture. Let one of these be 
the massive stem of an old tree, grey with 
time, and shattered with the storms of ages, 
wearing round its hoary brow a wild wreath 
of clustering ivy, and stretching forth one ver- 
dant branch, still clothed with dense foliage 
as in former years. Let the other be the 
weedy banks of'a silent river, in whose clear 
depths the shadow of this ancient tree is re- 
flected, and we have at once a scene of 
sufficient interest and beauty to rivet the 
eye and fascinate the imagination. Still 
much must depend, even in a scene so sim- 
ple as this, not only upon the skilful conduct 
of the pencil, but upon the poetical feeling 
of the artist. Perhaps the subject may be 
better understood by illustrating it with a 
case in point. 

It was, a few years ago, my good fortune 
to receive instruction from a gentleman,* 
who, whatever may be his other pretensions, 
must be unanimously acknowledged to be 
one of the most poetical artists of the present 
day ; a fact which is sufficiently proved by 
the fearless and independent manner in 
which he can snatch up the most barren sub- 
ject, and invest it with a mysterious beauty 
of his own creating. The piece which this 
artist first gave me to copy, was a pencil 
sketch of a rude entrance by a little wooden 
bridge, over anarrow stream, to what might 
be a copse-wood, or indeed a wood of any 
kind; for the whole picture contained no- 
thing more than three or four trees, a few 
planks of time-worn timber, and the reedy 
My task was 
performed with diligence, and with no little 
self-approbation, for my friends pronounced 
it to be admirable; and I saw myself that 


jy an, now professe i ing’s 
* Mr. Cotman, fessor of drawing at King 


painting, it becomes much less difficult to | College, London. 


63 || 


SS SSS SS SS 


a ap eS ee ee SN a ES ae een eens co t= seme)" 


Eee Eee 


| water, you might enter upon that unfre- 


eo ae ne 
TY SAS | SE FT 


tion, and fiaally pronounced it to be bad in | which draws forth the emotions of the soul 


cil, it would be foreign to my purpose (even 


64 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


—_———_——- 


the foliage of the oak was edged round with | imagination beyond what was perceptible to 
the most accurate precision, the rooks in the | the eye, farther and farther, into the silent 
distance were eked out with the same econo- | depth of the forest. 

my of number, and the bulrushes that stood From what I then saw of the metamor- 
in the water were all manifestly tipped at | phosis wrought upon this picture, and what 


the ends. While my heart bounded with | I have since learned by observation and ex- 


internal triumph, I drew forth the interesting | perience, I am inclined to think that the poe- 


deposit from the portfolio in which I had con- | try of landscape painting is dependent, in a 
veyed it into the presence of my master, and | great degree, upon the idea of atmosphere 
impatiently watched the expression of his | being clearly conveyed to the mind. That 
eye as he glanced over it. After looking at | scene, however laboriously or delicately ex- 
it for some time with less and less of what | ecuted, which, from its want of general har- 
was agreeable in his countenance, he atlast | mony, conveys no such idea to the mind, 


gave utterance to a low growl of disapproba- | deserves not the name of a picture; but that 


two ways—bad as a copy, and bad as a | by a correspondence with impressions made 


drawing. Although I was at that moment | upon it by the sun, the sky, the seasons, or 
very much inclined to execrate the art so | the hour of the day, may be highly and in- 


often called divine, I have since learned to | tensely poetical, though simple and unpre- 
look with feelings of interest almost like af- | tendinginitself ‘This idea must be strongly 
fection upon that simple drawing, to which | impressed upon the memory and the imagi- 
my master, with a few strokes from his own | nation of the painter before he begins his 
able and accomplished pencil, gave a char- | task. As in the natural world the colour 
acter at once touching, beautiful, and poetic. | and character of every visible object is af- 
What was practically the work of this pen- | fected by the air which is invisible, so in all re- 
| presentations of external nature there must be 
' were I able) todefine.. It is sufficient to say, | that perfect harmony pervading the whole 
that through the illusion of the eye, the mind | scene, which is in keeping with any particu- 
was forcibly presented with the ideas of | lar state of the atmosphere, of which the 
space and atmosphere. My drawing repre- | artist may wish to convey an impression to 
sented nothing but an even surface, covered | others; and thus, through the medium of 
with a minutely extended texture, woven | form and colour operating upon the eye, the 
according to the pattern, of oak leaves, reeds, | mind receives distinctly and forcibly the idea 
water, or whatever the uninitiated pencil | of that which possesses neither form nor col- 
might vainly attempt to imitate. In the | our in itself} and which no eye is capable of 
same picture, after it had received a few | beholding. 

touches from an able hand, the most unprac- I never saw the want of atmospherg more 
tised eye might behold a distinct repnentate: striking than ina picture full of peacocks. 
tion of a quiet day in autumn. The rooks, | It was intended to illustrate the fable of the 
which had been stationary and silent, were | presumptuous jackdaw adorned in borrowed 
now winging their way towards that woodland | plumes; but the jackdaw was only to be 
scene, cawing at intervals with the musical | found upon examination, for there were three 
and melancholy cadence, which at that par- peacocks nearly as large as life crowded in- 
ticular time of the year, and especially at that 
particular distance, turns their harsh tones to | them having their tails expanded, the can- 
melody. ‘The passage of the wooden bridge | vass was literally covered with feathers. 
had now become quite practicable, and after | These feathers, it is true, were beautifully 
looking down into the bosom of the unruffled | executed, and had the piece been called a 
picture of peacock’s feathers, it might have 
been admired; but there was a total absence 


quented path, and hear the rustling of the 
withered grass beneath your feet; while 


| high overhead were the majestic trates | and the eye turned away with weariness 
of old and stately trees, extended me the | | 


or disgust, while the mind remained unin- 


a 


to a moderate sized painting, and two of 


of some of the most essential parts of a scene,” 


Se”: CUFF 
eS 
ee 


THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 


formed as to the meaning of the painter, un- 


'| impressed with a single idea. 


ee ee ee re ae ee eS 


Se 


In describing this picture, my mind very 
naturally reverts to one in the same exhibi- 
tion, almost immediately opposed to it in situ- 
ation, but still more so in character. It was, if 
I recollect right, by one of the Nasmiths, and. 
represented a sunset upon a level beach. 
The sky was still glowing with all the gor- 
geous tints of evening, but the sun was not 
visible, and there was neither cliff nor wave, 
nor headland to reflect his light. All was a 
complete flat, gilded with his sidelong beams, 
and the sea and the shore were alike unruf- 
fled. But the artist, acquainted with the 
principles of mind as well as matter, had not 
sent forth this mere flat to brave the conse- 
quent contempt of mankind. He had wise- 
ly given to his picture a focus of interest, 
without which it must have been a complete 
blank. We have before observed, that what- 
ever is beautiful or sublime, does not create 
intense sensations of pleasure, without some 
link of human fellowship, either real or im- 
aginary; so the painter of this picture had 
placed in the middle distance, or rather in 
the foreground of his piece, two human be- 
ings, whose tall shadows fell behind them 
on the ground. They might be fishermen 
consulting about the tides, or travellers rest- 
ing by the way, or poets gazing on the gold- 
en sky; their dress and appearance revealed 
nothing, nor was it of consequence that they 
should. They were human, and that was 
enough. Imagination could supply the rest, 
and people that glowing scene with all the 
images, familiar or fantastic, that wait upon 
the sun’s decline. 

It was the perfect harmony of this picture 
which made the charm so irresistible—the 
illusion so complete ; and whenever the de- 
light or the beauty of landscape painting is 
considered, harmony must be acknowledged 
to be the basis upon which both are founded. 
It is true that the external aspect of nature 
presents perpetual contrast, both in form and 
colour; but this very contrast is in harmony 
with the whole: for our ideas of beauty are 
chiefly derived from the principles which 


pervade the external world, and amongst 


these we may reckon it not the least impor- | 7 
| heat, so, on perceiving the same appearance 
| in a picture, we persuade ourselves that it 


tant that there can be no brilliant light, with- 
out deep shadow. 


——<———-= =. 
—— 


65 


In speaking of the pleasure derived from 
painting, I have found in necessary to make 
frequent use of the word illusion, a word 
which might unquestionably be applied to 
many other sources of human gratification. 
But in reference to the illusion to which we 
willingly and necessarily submit ourselves, 
in order to find greater pleasure in the pro- 
ductions of the pencil, it may not be ill- 
timed to offer a few remarks in this place. 

Those who have never studied the art of 
painting, intellectually, are not aware how 
much we are indebted for the pleasure we 
receive from it, to a natural process which 
takes place in the mind of the beholder. 
The painter who has no brighter materials 
than red and yellow clay to work with, can 
so dispose them as to represent the splen- 
dour and brilliance of a summer sunset, upon 
which we gaze till our eyes are almost daz- 
zied with the refulgence of those burning 
beams. In the centre of his piece he. places 
the glowing orb of day, smiling his brightest 
before he sinks to rest upon his couch of 
crimson clouds; on either side are trees 
whose foliage is bathed in the same golden 
hues, and if skilfully managed, they will 
form a vista terminating in excess of light ; 
while the whole is enlivened by a group of 
panting cattle, some of them holding down 
their heads as if in the very prostration of 
patient endurance, while their tails are 
curled about in every possible variety of 
posture, to: show with what assiduity they 
are lashing off the myriads of insects, whose 
busy and unceasing hum is almost loud 
enough to be heard. On first asking why 
the little spot of yellow paint which repre- 
sents the sun looks so much more brilliant 
in the picture than on the palette, we are 
told it is the adjustment of the different 
grades of light which thus increases the 
brightness of the centre. But let the same 
colours be placed without any regard to 
form in the same order on the palette, and 
we behold nothing but a heap of paint, upon 
which we might gaze till doomsday without 
being dazzled. It is because we know that 
that particular appearance of the sun, the sky 
the earth, the trees, and the cattle, is in reality 
the invariable accompaniment, of intense 


= 


EG tipsareereemnen pencereener remem cee ee eas ee ee eee 


$e 


eee eee eee eee 
= ~ - ————— ee 
~ i ee 
ny ner 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


is so there. If in the same scene, and with 
| precisely the same colours, the artist should 
represent the violence ofa gale of wind; or 
if instead of the cattle, but in the same situa- 
‘tion, and still with the same colours, he 
should place a leafless tree, a cottage with 
its roof covered with snow, and a miserable, 
halfstarved man, vainly endeavouring to 
fold a blanket round his shivering limbs, 
there is no eye that would feel the same dif- 
ficulty, in gazing on the picture, no mind, 
either of man or woman, that would be able, 
while contemplating such a scene, to un- 
dergo the process of (what is now commonly 
called) realizing the ideas of light and heat. 

In the selection of animals, or individual 

objects thrown in from choice to diversify a 

picture, the landscape painter finds wide 

scope for the display of his poetic feeling. 
The introduction of fat cattle is an error into 
which none could fall who was not either a 
novice in his art, or an agriculturalist irre- 

vocably wedded to the best system of rear- 

ing live stock. And why? Because our 

associations with fat cattle, whatever satis- 
faction they may yield in the kitchen or 
larder, are decidedly too gross and vulgar 
in their nature to afford any gratification in 
a poem or a picture. Far be it from the 
writer of this chapter to depreciate the value 
of fat cattle, or any other agricultural pro- 
duce; but everything has an appropriate 
place, and there is but one kind of picture in 
which fat cattle would be in theirs. I will 
leave the reader to judge how far that kind 
is worthy of the graphic art. Let the sub- 
ject be a red brick farm house, with a barn 
extending on one side, and a square plot of 
garden ground on the other, circular corn 
stacks, and a red-tiled pigeon house in front, 
with fields in the distance, smoothed down 
by constant culture, and intersected with 
neatly clipped hedgerows running at right 
angles all over them; then fat cattle would 
unquestionably be well placed in the fore- 
ground, and the picture, merely as such, 
would possess the beauty of harmony in all 
its parts, though it might be impossible to 
call it poetical. 

After condemning an extreme case, the 
mind, by a natural effort, rushes towards its 
opposite in search of that gratification which 
it has failed to find, and the idea which now 


presents itself, is that of a wild and varied 
landscape, with distant mountains, rugged. 
precipices, deep groves, green slopes, foam- | 
ing cataracts, and wandering rills. Upon || 
the verdant banks of one of these, beneath: || 
the shade of a “wide spreading beech,” the 
artist places, immediately in the foreground, 
no less a personage than Apollo himself, 
while the Muses dance before him to the 
music of his lyre, and winged loves, and. 
agile graces, skip from rock to rock, or float 


upon the ambient air. Does the picture 
please? No; because, in the first instance, 
it is not true to nature,* and wherever the 
conceit of man’s imagination breaks in upon 
the harmony and pathos which belong to 
nature alone, the poetical charm must. in 
some measure be destroyed ; and, secondly, 
because in the picture of a landscape, the 
ideal of rural scenery should be distinet and 
predominant, which it is impossible it si:ould 
be avhere characters so important as Apollo 
and the Muses are introduced. But let us 


still retain the landscape, and see whether 
something better may not be made of it. 
The urtist who enters into the real spirit of 
poetry, will place upon the broken crags of 
the mountain a few shaggy goats, and per- || 
haps a solitary stag,a wanderer from the || 
herd, will be stooping over the side of the | 
stream to lave its thirst in the cool waters of 
the forest. The foreground he will enliven 
with the rich colouring of innumerable wild 
plants, woven into a gorgeous carpet, which 
here and there gives place to a sharp pro- 
jecting rock, or yields to the wild vagaries 


of a small silvery torrent, that sparkles up 
from a gray stone fountain, and after filling 
a rude trough, shoots forth in bubbling ed- 
dies, and then loses itself amongst the thick 
leaves and brushwood overhanging the little 
narrow bed, which with the strife of ages it. 
has worked out for its own repose. Beside 
this fountain, a woman is standing, not an 
angel, or a goddess, but a simple peasant 
woman, whose dress, coarse but gorgeous 
in its colouring, corresponds with the rich 
and varied tints of the foreground. She has 


* “My notion of nature comprehends not only the 
forms which nature produces, but also the nature and 
internal fabric and organizations, as 1 may cal) it. of 
the human mind and imagination.”—Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, | 


oo 


and is resting it for a moment on the side of 
the stone trough, before she treads back her 
lonely way to the herdsman’s cottage, whose 
low thatched roof may be seen half hid by 
the sheltering trees. Here is at-once a pict- 
ure, which, by awakening our sympathies, 
calling to mind a thousand delightful recol- 
lections, and giving birth to the most agree- 
| able associations, rivets our attention, de- 
lights our fancy, and demonstrates more 
} clearly than would a volume of definitions, 
|| what it is that constitutes the poetry of 
painting; and in this manner, the most 
| pleasing landscapes may be composed out 
} of materials extremely simple, and some- 
| times even barren in themselves. 
| Perhaps no one was ever more intimately 
|| acquainted with the poetry of this branch of 
| the art, than Salvator Rosa. In all his de- 
| lineations of the savage dignity of nature, 
| 


| may be found a perfect correspondence, be- 
tween the subjects which he chose, and his 


| manner of treating them. “Everything is 

| of a piece, his rocks, trees, sky, even to his 
handling, have the same rude and wild cha- 
racter whicli anmates his figures.” 

As the art of poetry may be classed under 
several different heads, so that of painting 
has, to the poetical observer, many distinc- 
tions of character not laid down in the tech- 
nical phraseology of the schools. Leaving 
the more celebrated productions of the stu- 
dio, to which there might doubtless be found 
corresponding specimens in the sister art, I 
will turn to a case in point, which to my 
mind is both striking and familiar. Itis the 
resemblance of character between Bewick’s 
woodcuts, and the poems of Robert Burns. 
It is true, the artist in this instance has con- 
fined himself to a mode of conveying his 
ideas so simple and unpretending, that the 

| comparison hardly holds good between the 
| productions of the pencil and the pen. All 
that I maintain is the similarity of talent, of 
| tone of mind, and moral feeling, displayed 
in their separate works. We find in both 
the same adherence to nature, without orna- 
ment or affectation, and we discover the 
same pathos in those slight touches of which 
genius alone is capable, with the same freaks 
of fancy, lawless and unrestrained, describ- 
ing as if in very wantonness, scenes the 


just filled her pitcher from the pure stream, | 


THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 


most grotesque, ludicrous, or familiar; and 
then soaring away amongst the wild, the | 
melancholy, and sometimes the sublime, yet 
retaining throughout the same moral im- 
press, either dignified or abused. | 

I was once so circumstanced as to become } 
intimately acquainted with the private stud- | 
ies of an artist, whose talent bore so striking [ 
a resemblance to ballad writing, that I feel | 
confident had circumstances in early life di- 
rected his choice to the pen instead of the 
pencil, he would have used it with equal fa- 
cility, and probably with as much lasting’ 
fame. The subjects which came under my 
notice were. extremely small, and seldom } 
contained more than a little patch of moun- 
tain scenery, with two or three coats or wild 
sheep; yet such was the characier of these 
fairy pictures, that while the eye dwelt upon 
them, the illusion was so perfect as almost || 
to beguile the fancy with the belief, that the 


bleat of those wandering sheep, the scent of 

the purple heather, and the hum of the wild 

bee, were really present to the senses. You 
might gaze, and gaze upon those simple 
scenes until you felt the cool « lasticity of the 
mountain breeze, and the influence of the 
clear blue sky, stretching pure and. high and 
distant over the wide moor; while you wan- 
dered on, amongst the rustling furze and 


Spey aioapeaiege 


yellow broom, startling the timid moor-fowl, | 
and rousing the slumbering larx to spread }} 
avain its folded wing, and soaring into upper | 
air, to sing another hymn of praise and 
thanksgiving to the Author of this perilect 
and wonderful creation, of which we feel | 
ourselves in such moments to be no incon- | 
siderable or unworthy part. What is there 
to remind us that we are unworthy? We | 
feel not the stirrings of mean or sordid pas- 
sion. We are away from the habitations of 
man. Away from the envy and strife, the 
tumult and contention, which mar the peace 
of his hereditary and social home. Away 
amongst the hills—away in the boundless 
and immeasurable realm of nature, where | 
it is impossible not to feel the love of a be- 
nign and superintending Providerce—not to 
behold the work of an omnipotent Creator— 
not to acknowledge the dominion of a pure | 
and holy God. If we are not worthy of his | 
countenance and protection when we feel |: 
and acknowledge all this, when we bow in 


i 


68 


all-pervading spirit that animates and sus- 
tains the world ; when—when are the crea- 
tures of his forcnestion to lift up the prayer 
of gratitude, and return thanks os the bless- 
ing of existence ? 

But to return to our subiect. After all 
that has been said of the importance of copy- 
ing from nature, a few remarks may be ne- 
cessary in reference to this expression, which 
is capable of being very differently under- 
stood. "To copy nature is not merely to 
make the sky above, and the earth beneath, 
or even, entering into minutia, to make the 
clouds grey, and the grass green. The 
artist may copy nature with the accuracy 

nd precision of a Chinese,* and yet never 
| paint a picture that will excite even momen- 
tary almiration. Itis quite as necessary that 
he should be able to perceive with the eye, 
as to execute with the hand. He must learn 
to distinguish, to separate, and to combine ; 
but above all, he must be able to form a 
whole, not out of the different parts presented 
atone particular moment to his eye, but, as 
nature is perpetually changing, and ‘as no 
two yards of the eartl’s surface are precisely 
alike, he must compose a whole out of the 
various ‘aspects of the natural and visible 
world, which he has at different times of his 
life observed, and of which his memory re- 
tains a distinct impression; and this proves 
avai, that painting as well as poetry re- 
quires time and opportunity for receiving 
such indelible impressions, without which 
the works of the most talented artist would 
never exceed in merit the representations in 
a school-boy’s sketch book. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds remarks, in his ad- 
mirable lectures, that Rubens makes amends 
for the loca! peculiarities of the Dutch school, 
by varying his landscape representations of 
individual places, confined and uninteresting 
in themselves, by the introduction of a rain- 
how, a storm, or some particular accidental 
eifect of light; while Claude Lorrain, who 
well knew that taking nature as he found it, 


tures from draughts which he had previously 


TS 


* This remark does not refer to the figures upon china, 
but to the more elaborate paintings of the Chinese, 
where a delineation of every leaf on a tree is frequently 
attempted. 


eS Se = 
So He 


simplicity and humble reverence before the 


seldom produced beauty, composed his pic-, 


cans si os I eae 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


made from various beautiful views and pros- 
pects. It is a vulgar remark, often made 
upon pictures thus composed, that they are 
not true to nature, nor are. they like a map, 
true to any given section of the earth’s sur- 
face; but they are true to that conception of 
perfect beauty with which nature animates 
the soul of the poet, and which it is one of 
his greatest pleasures to see diffused over 
the external world. Itis not by represent- 
ing nature in detail, but in character, that 
the highest gratification is produced; and 
he must unquestionably be the best, as well 
as the most poetical painter, who conveys 
by his werks an idea of the general charac- 
ter of the external world; in short, who | 
paints not only for the eye, but for the mind. 
It is not the eye alone that is enlivened by |} 
the brilliance of a sunny morning, nor is it | 
the eye alone that reposes where the sombre 
shades of evening fall upon our path. There 
must be so much of character in all repre- 
sentations of particular times and seasons, |: 
as to convey to the mind a corresponding |, 
idea of the general state of the sky, the air, 
the vegetable and the animal kingdom, by 
which such seasons are invariably accom- 
panied. Thus the landscape painter, by 
cultivating a familiar acquaintance with the 
minute varieties, and the distinct character- 
istics of the visible world; but above all, 
by studying profoundly those phenomena by 
which all that we know of the mysteries of 
beauty, power, and sublimity are revealed, 
will be able out of such materials to com- 
pose a whole, whose highest recommenda- 
tion it will be, that it addresses itself forcibly 
to the imagination of the beholder, and calls 
up a train of associations with feelings and 
ideas the most exquisite and poetical. 

On the poetry of historical painting, vol- 
umes might be written—but as much, per- 
haps too much, has already been said on 
painting in general, I will merely add a few 
remarks on this particular branch of the art. 
It is obvious, on first turning our attention 
to this subject, that the grand requisite for a 
poetical painter, is a mind so cultivated and | 
informed, and at the same time so warmed | 
by enihusiaain, as to enable the artist to 
enter fully and deeply into the subject before 
him. As an instance of this we need only 
contrast the touching pathos, the wild grace, 


- 


and beauty given by Gainsborough to all 
his cottage children, with some of our more 
modern and ephemeral productions, where 
a young lady with the airs and graces of a 
fashionable boarding school, or where at 
least a lay figure is dressed in rags and 


ealled a beggar girl. The little motherless 
looking children in Gainsborough’s pictures 
offer a silent appeal to our best and tender- 
est feelings, and it is evident he must have 
powerfully realized in his own mind all 
that belongs to orphan-destitution, as well 
as to the simple habits and feelings of 
rustic life. 

Next to this qualification for’ a poetical 
painter, is a capacity for combining a whole 
from particular and suitable parts, and the 
art of keeping all such parts in their proper 
degree of relation and subordination. I for 
instance a painter, in representing the death 
ofa father of a family, should so far forget 
the dignity of his subject, as to make a fa- 
vourite dog advance to the centre of the 
piece and lick his master’s face, the unity of 
the whole would be destroyed; and instead 
of the feelings being affected by sympathy 
with the grief there represented, the general 
and very natural exclamation would be— 
“What can the dog be doing?’ But let 
the afflicted family, next to their dying 
parent, be most conspicuous in the scene. 
Let the focus (if | may use the expression) 
of distress diverge amongst the domestics or 
less interested members of the household, 
and then in the distance the same dog might 
very properly be introduced, looking through 
the half open door with surprise and per- 
plexity upon the unwonted scene, and stand- 
ing with one foot lifted up as if doubting 
whether it were a place and time for him to 
venture in. The same kind of subordination 
with respect to light and colour is of im- 
mense importance in the formation of a 
scene. That picture which is broken up 
with a variety of spots of light and shade, 


| can neither be agreeable to the eye, nor con- 


vey to the mind sensations of concentrated 
or powerful interest. But as the rules for 
the regulation of light and shade, as well as 
of form and colouring, belong more exclu- 
sively to the studio, I shall merely repeat in 
reference to this subject, that none of these 
rules can in any single instance be so vio- 


lated as to offend the eye, or strike the fancy 
with an impression foreign to the purpose of 
the painter, without the charm of the whole 
being sacrificed. With the practical parts 
of his profession, the piinter must make 
himself acquainted, upon the same principle 
that the poet learns the grammatical use of 
language, and studies the rules of composi- 
tion; nor would a glaring breach of pro- 
priety of style be less pardonable in one in- 
stance, than a gross departure from the 
established rules of art in the other. 

I am induced to make these remarks be- 
cause we are perpetually nearing of the in- 
spiration, rather than the cultivation of 
genius; and that the merit of a painting, 
rather than the misfortune of the painter, 
consists in his being selftaught. The only 
excuse that can be made for so glaring a 
misuse of language, is that it may serve the 
purpose of exciting in the vulgar mind high- 
er notions of the influence of intellectual 
power. The constant labour and concen- 
trated application which marked the lives of 
the most eminent painters, prove that im- 
mediate inspiration had little to do with the 
work of their hands. Indeed I know not 
what inspiration is, with regard to the fine 
arts; unless it be the first moving spring of 
action—the desire—the thirst for excellence 
obtained at any cost, which operates upon 
the talent and the will, prompting the one to 
seek and the other to submit to, all the labo- 
rious, irksome, and difficult means which 
are necessary for the attainment of excel- 
lence. 

The painter knows well what it has cost 
him to compose one entire figure out of the 
various parts, which intense study has taught 
him are essential to any particular whole. 
He knows, but there is no need that he 
should tell the world, how many thousand 
sketches he has made of each individual 
limb, by how many heart-breaking failures 
the wreath of fame has been torn from his 
brow, what days and nights he has spent in 
the adjustment of the cloak of a favorite 
hero, how the head of his saint has been de- 
sioned from sketches made in Italy, the feet 
of his martyr brought from Paris, and the 
hand of his goddess copied from that of his 
own lady-love at home, who had laid aside 
her stitching, and doffed her thimble, after 


for) 
oO 


70 


ing all the time, to sit for the likeness of her 
hand. And this is what the vulgar call in- 
spiration! They speak too of expression in 
a portrait, just as if it were a sort of ma- 
gical atmosphere thrown around the figure, 
and capable of converting form and colour 
of any description into a likeness. 
not take the trouble to observe that the eye- 


are ignorant that the nostrils when depressed 
at one corner denote melancholy, when ele- 


character_of the mouth, by a slight altera- 


long course of study, éxperience, and unre- 
mitting labour, that he makes himself inti- 
mately acquainted, not only with the natu- 


accompany certain emotions of the mind; 
that: by these means he is enabled not only 


is called expression. 
On dismissing the idea of inspiration from 
the art of painting, and acknowledging the 


a poetical painter, though elevated to the 


attained that eminence by a process not im- 
properly called education; though it may or 
may not have been conducted in strict con- 
formity with academical rules. This process 
may be divided into three stages. First, he 
feels the moving spring of action—the ardent 
desire which prompts the young artist to look 
abroad into the works of the creation, to 
search out with penetrating and comprehen- 
sive vision, the eternal principles,of things, 
and to discover and acknowledge wherever 


alive to this state of feeling, who from want 
of suitable advantages, from different. bias, 


se ee ee ee i re 
Se 0 ee eee eee 
is 


sapien farther in the walks of art; and 


many fruitless entreaties, consenting for five | own shame and disappointment. 
minutes only, and with the liberty of scold- | the young artist, stimulated with this burn- 


They do |} words as the vehicle to convey his ideas to 
brows in the original are arched, and that | gives life and splendour to his verse: and 
the painter has made them straight; they | just with the same facility can the painter 
vated vivacity and wit; that the artist can | his harmonious thoughts in a language un- 
immediately produce a total change in the | known to him before. 

tion in the closing line; and that it is by a | artist in time emerges, though only to ex- 
‘the field of those studies which the longest 
ral formation of the human countenance, but | brings us to the third and last stage, when 


also with those muscular affections anh the artist, still animated with the same en- 


to perceive, but to imitate the characteristic | use of the proper means, he is now able to 
lines and features, and thus to produce what apply b »oth the ardour of is soul, and the la- 


necessity of study and experience, we see that | quainted with their internal construction, 


highest distinctions of genius, can only have | Fully qualified to enter the realm of poetry, 


it is to be found, the imperishable essence of moment, the accumulated influence, and 
beauty. Hihbdsntids of human beings are power, 1a majesty, of a long life of glorious | 
in short, from necessity, are hindered Blin captive the fallen cnOhARSt in chains which 


therefore thousands are sensible of the hep allure the sylvan doit into Pirérs of his 
ical influence of painting, who have never | own constructing ; personify the impassioned 


touched a pencil, or only touched one to their | minstrel with a harmony of colouring, like 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


But let 


ing desire—this unquenchable thirst for 
physical and moral excellence, submit him- 
self to the strictest discipline of the schools, 
will his energy be impaired, his genius ex- 
tinguished, or his enthusiasm subdued ? No. 
No more than the poet in selecting suitable 


mankind, will lose the Promethean fire which 


strike off a perfect picture without adherence 
to established rules, as the minstrel can pour 


from the stern practice of the schools, the 
tend the sphere of his education, and widen 


life of man is insufficient to complete. This | 


thusiasm, launches forth into the world. |} 
Taving become thorou ghly initiated into the 


bour of his hand, to the production of those 
splendid works which his mind is not less 
able to conceive, for having been made ac- 


their peculiar distinctions, and limitations. 


he identifies himself with the author, and re- 
garding his hero in his moral and intellec- 
tual character, invests him with a nobility of 
mien and stature, which, if itis not true to his 
physical formation, is true to nature; be- 
cause his nature was noble, and the charac- || 
ter which the historian is able to describe 
with the intervention of time, and the change | 
of scene and circumstance, he must impress |} 
upon the canvass, as it were with one stroke, | 
and concentrate into the space of a single || 


actions. Animated by the spirit-stirring in- |; 
fluence of poeiic feeling, he can now take 


his own hand 4ings sete him; he can 


THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 


music to the eye; and tinge an angel’s wings 
with the golden hues of heaven. | 

The greatest merit of painting is, that 
like poetry, it addresses itself to those prin- 
ciples of intellectual enjoyment, without 
which its greatest beauties would neither be 
appreciated or seen—principles implanted in 
the human mind, and often neither felt nor 
acknowledged, until called forth by the works 
of art. The pleasure we derive from paint- 
ing, is commonly and superficially consid- 
ered to be only as it is an imitative art. 
Why then do not coloured figures in wax, 
rank higher in the estimation of the world, 
than the more laborious and cumbrous pro- 
\| ductions of the sculptor? And why do not 
miniature landscapes, with the real elevation 
of hills, trees, and houses, made of cork or 
clay, and coloured to the hues of nature, 
please more than the level surface, on which 
form and distance are denoted merely by-a 
particular management of colour, so as to 
represent light and shade? The fact is, that 
in such performances, however ingeniously 
managed, nothing is left for the imagination. 
We see the thing as it really is, pronounce 


aaa 
71 


the power of human genius, that we hear 
most forcibly, and if we do not understand, 
we feel the eternal truths which have their 
archetype in nature, and their corresponding 
impress in the soul of man. 


Ep 
THE POETRY OF SOUND. 


Amonest. the organs of perception by 
which ideas of sensible things are conveyed 
to the niind, it is ‘only necessary here to no- || 
tice those which are most important and ob- 
vious—the eye, and theear. Painting forms 
the medium of connexion between the eye 
and the mind: language supplies the mind 
with ideas, through the medium of the ear. 
Our attention has hitherto been occupied by 
visible objects alone, and having conducted 
them to the mind through one avenue, it is 
necessary that we take up the subject of 
sound, in order that we may make a pro- 
gressive approach by another. 

Sound is perhaps of all subjects the most 
intimately connected with poetic feeling, not 
only because it comprehends within its wide- 


it to be very pretty, and think no more about 
| it; while those in which the effect alone is 
| obvious, and the means enveloped in their 


ly extended sphere, the influence of music, 
so powerful over the passions and affections 


proper obscurity, strike the beholder with 
feelings of wonder and admiration; while 
through the medium of the senses, he -re- 
ceives just so much information, as is neces- 
sary to set the imagination afloat upon an 
immeasurable ocean of thought. Let hands 
proiane colour to the very life an Apollo or 
a Venus, and we should see nothing more 
than a fine man, and a pretty woman; but 
in contemplating them as they are, we be- 
hold the eternal principles of imperishable 
beauty, handed down to us from distant ages, 
conceived by one nation, appropriated by 
another, and acknowledged by all with the 
profoundest admiration. 

Painting and sculpture, next to poetry, 
constitute the grand medium by which the 
sublimest ideas, and the most exquisite sen- 
sations are conveyed to the human mind. 
It is true the phenomena of nature are more 
essentially sublime, as well as beautiful; but 

| nature speaks to us in a voice which we do 
| not always hear, and cannot always under- 
stand. {tis when nature is interpreted by 


of our nature; but because there is in poe- 
try itself, a cadence—ea perceptible harmo- 
ny, which delights the ear while the eye re- 
mains unaffected. The car is also more 
subject than the eye to the influence of 
association, just in proportion as the impres- 
sions it receives are more isolated or dis- 
tinct. The eye perceives a great number 
of objects at once, or in such rapid succes- 
sion that they tend to destroy the identity || 
of each, and so long as it remains unclosed, 
continues to behold, and to perceive, without 
amoment’s intermission ; but the ear, besides 
being compelled to receive sounds, merely as 
they are offered to it, without, like the eye, 
possessing the powers of searching, selecting, 
and investigating for itself, has its intervals 
of silence, which render the impressions that 
have been made more durable, and those 
which are to follow more acute. Wherever 
there is any visible object, the eye, and the 
mind through the eye, may receive pleasure, 
because light itself is beautiful, and the 
glancing sunbeams even on the walls of a 


72 


prison, afford to the unfortunate dwellers 
within, associations which connect those 
beams with the glorious orb of day, the 
skies, the air, and a multitude of agreeable 
ideas which naturally present themselves ; 
but the ear is much less frequently gratified 
than the eye, especially in towns, where it 
is denied the negative enjoyment of silence. 
Comyare the frequency of light and sun- 
shine appearing even on the prison wall, 
with the occurrence of any sweet, or sooth- 
ing sound within those gloomy precincts. 
Compare the beautiful specimens of art, the 
appearance of order, regularity, and magnil- 
icence to be seen in the city, with the per- 
petual tumult and din, by which the ear is 
distressed and annoyed. Compare the end- 
less variety of charms presented to the eye 
by external nature, with the frequent silence 
which prevails in the country, and we shall 
perceive at once, that the ear is an organ 
less active, aid less occunied than the eye ; 
and thus we may account for its impressions 
being so intense, as. well as so peculiarly 
fraught with associations the most powerful 
and affecting to the mind. 

Why certain sounds should be agreeable 
or disagreeable to the ear may be best 
understood by examining the principles of 
music ; which for more reasons than one, it 
would be unwise to introduce into the pre- 
sent work. The established fact that the 
ear is gratified by harmony, and pained by 
discord, is quite sufficient for my present 
purpose; but why, under certain circum- 
stances, we are delighted with sounds which 
are in themselves, and separate from agsoci- 
ation, the most intolerable discord, may very 
properly form a subject of serious consider- 
ation here. 

Perhaps one of the most striking, as well 
as most familiar instances of this kind, is 
the cawing of the rook. When this bird is 
taken captive and brought into your room, 
nothing can well be more offensive to the 
ear, more harsh, or discordant, than its 
voice; and yet the same voice heard in 
certain situations in the open air is prover- 
bially musical—heard as a number of these 
social and sagacious inhabitants of the 
woods are winging their slow and solemn 
flight, while their shadows flit over the richly 
cullivated landscape, and approaching the 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


abodes of man, they wheel round and round 
in graceful circles, returning homeward with 
the same speed, the same desire, and the 
same end in view, the language of the whole 
community reminding the listener of the 
voices of wearied but contented travellers, 
well pleased to return from their journey ; 
while they congratulate each other upon 
the peace, the comfort, and the security 
which awaits them in their ancestral dwell- 
ings. 

Though the language of the rook is ex- 
tremely limited, and to those who know 
little of rural scenes or rural pleasures, ex- 
tremely monotonous, it is capable of varying 
that language by a cadence of expression 
both familiar and interesting to the privi- 
leged class of beings who draw upon the 
inexhaustible resources of nature for their 
amusement and delight. In the spring, 
when the rooks first begin to be busy with 
their nests, their language, like their feel- 
ings and occupations, is cheerful, bustling, 
and tumultuous. Within the rookery it is 
perfect discord; but heard in the distance, 
it conveys to the mind innumerable pleasing 
associations with that delightful season of 
the year, and the universal alacrity and joy 
with which the animal creation resume 
their preparations for a new and bappy life. 
But it is in the autumn, when the bustle of the 
spring and summer has subsided, that the 
language of the rook is most poetical. There 
is then a melancholy cadence in its voice, 
heard slowly and at intervals, which is in 
perfect unison with the general aspect of 
nature; nor is it difficult to suppose that 
this sagacious bird, perched upon the top- 
most bough of some venerable tree, is mak- 
ing observations upon the external world, 
and sympathising in the universal tendency 
to decay, exhibited in the scattered fruit, 
the faded foliage, and the withered grass. 

Of the same description of sound is the 
bleating of the lamb, which in itself is as en- 
tirely devoid of sweetness and melody, as 
the cawing of the rook; yet the voice of the 


lamb has been so long and so intimately , 


connected in idea with the season of spring, 
with green fields and sunny slopes, with 
scented hawthorn, yellow cowslips, rich 
meadows, and wandering rills; as well as 
with plenty, and innocence, and peace ; that 


; 


i 
( 


our best poets have deemed it no violation 
of the laws to which genius is amenable, to 
mingle the bleating of the lamb, with the 
sweetest harmony of nature. 

} . One more instance of the same kind will 
|| suffice—the croak of the raven, which ex- 
‘| ceeds the other two in the harshness and 
‘| dissonance with which it strikes upon the 
ear; and yet how perfectly harmonious is 
the croak of the raven when it echoes 
amongst the rocky heights of the mountain, 
r rising from the rugged cliffs of the shore, 
|} mingles with the hollow and tumultuous 
roar of the ever restless ocean. 

The voices of the innumerable singing 
| birds, which people our gardens, fields, and 
groves, filling the air with one perpetual 
|| melody, are well known to every listening 
ear and feeling mind, both in their natural 
music, and in their poetical associations. 
From the sweet, plaintive notes of the robin, 
to the rich, full warble of the thrush and 
blackbird, they are in themselves, and sepa- 
rate from all relative ideas, most delightful 
to the ear, under almost all imaginable cir- 
cumstances except one; and that is, when 
heard through the bars of the solitary prison 
to which the wild minstrels of nature are too 
often inhumanly condemned. The iwo 
most melancholy sounds in the world, are 
the song of the caged bird, and the voice of 
the street minstrel. It makes the heart that 
has been accustomed to the wild, joyous 
minstrelsy of nature, sicken to hear either. 
Suspended in his*narrow cage, and excluded 
by an outer prison from all participation in 
the fresh and genial air, or hung without 
these walls in the heat and din and suffoca- 
tion of the crowded city, perhaps the little 
prisoner feels a gleam of sunshine fall upon 
/his plumed wing, and in an instant the fire 
| of nature is kindled in his bosom. He may 
know nothing of the flowery fields, let us 
hope he possesses not the faculty of remem- 
bering what once he was; but in his bound- 
ing breast instinct supplies the place of 
memory and imagination,’ and he pines for 
he knows not what. Animated with the 
energy of a wild free life, he flutters his light 

wings with a quick and fairy motion, almost 
|| spiritual in its grace, and oh! how touching 
in the perpetual fruitlessness of its efforts 
to “flee away and be at rest.” Still the life 


THE POETRY OF SOUND. 


of its little soul is unsubdued, and it war- 
bles out its longest, loudest notes, even there, 
as if in defiance of the power of man, or to 
prove that there is a power in nature, a 
power of expansion and vitality, beyond the 


‘reach of his controlling, contracting, and 


contaminating hand.) 
There is a scene exhibited every day 
throughout the summer months, in the out- 
skirts of London, which it is possible to con- 
template until the mind is filled with mis- 
anthropy, and we learn to loathe and shun 
our own species. In fields sufficiently re- 
mote from the city to admit of their being 
the resort of birds, men are accustomed to 
| 


{ 
3 | 
“4 I 


station themselves with a trap and snare, in 
order to obtain a supply of singing birds for 
the London markets. The trap isa large 
net, so contrived that it can be drawn up in 
a moment; the snare is a little chirping 
bird, tied fast to the end of a pliant stick, 
which rebounds with the flutter of its wings, 
and thus the bird alternately rising and 
sinking has something the appearance of 
dancing at will upon the light and buoyant 
spray. ‘I'he man, the monarch of creation, 
all the while crouches on the ground to watch 
his prey, aud when one little sufferer has by 
its fruitless struggles so weil mimicked the 
movements of a joyous flight, as to allure 
its fellow victims into the snare, the fatal 
knot is drawn, the man chooses out from the 
number the sweetest songsters, and after 
depositing them separately in an immense 
number of little cages, brought with him for || 
the purpose, they are conveyed to the mar- | 
ket, purchased, and made miserable during || 
the rest of their lives, for. the delectation of 
London ears, and the benefit of society in 
general. 

I know not whether it was che effect of 
my own fancy, or that such was really the 
fact, but the men whom I have seen employ- 
ed in this business, looked to me uncom- 
monly large, that is, personally large. 
There was so strange a contrast. between 
their magnitude and that of the little fragile 
beings they were contending with upon 
such unequal terms; between the frantic 
fluttering of the decoy bird and the joyous 
flight of the free ones ; between this system 
of deception, artifice and cruelty, and the 
open and manly performance of that Chris- 


eS ee es _eeueee 
_ -——————— SS t— 


74 


tian duty which teaches us to deal merci- 
fully even with the meanest of God’s crea- 
tures, that I have always considered this 
scene as amongst the most melancholy of 
tlose incident to a congregated mass of 
human beings in an imperfect state of moral 
cultivation. 

But to return from this digression to the 
immense number and variety of sounds 
made conducive to the embellishment of 
poetry amongst which that of the wind is 
perhars the most productive of poetical as- 
sociations. Strike out this master chord 
from the harp of nature,.and the music of 
the spheres would be harmony no more. 
Upon the bosom of the waveless sea; in 
the wide desert, where the sterile sand re- 
poses unruffled; or in more domestic and 
familiar scenes, when the sky is concealed 
behial a dense mass of motionless cloud, 
when the flowers no longer tremble on their 
slender stems, and even the aspen leaves 
are still a voice is wanting to remind us of 
the prevalence and potency of one mighty 
element; and we feel as if the great spirit 
of nature were either sleeping or dead. 
Tie least perceptible movement in the_air, 
the slightest sound of the passing breeze as 
it whispers through the leafy boughs of the 
forest, fills up the dreary void; an all-per- 
va ling intelligence again lives around us, 
and the imaginative mind holds ideal inter- 
course with invisible beings, whose home is 
in the wilderaess, and whose mystical com- 
panionship is the symbolical language in 
which nature is ever speaking to her chil- 
dren. According to the temper and con- 
struction of that mind, the voice of the wind 
briags tidings either joyful or melancholy. 
lt may whisper in those low sweet tones 
which are sacred to the communication of 
happiness, or it may axswer to the sadness 
of the soul in long ylaintive notes that re- 
semble a continued, unbroken, and universal 
sizh. Itmay tell of the gardens of the Kast, 
of the perfumes of Arabia that float upon its 
buoyant wings, of the cooling flow of spark- 
liig waterfalls, of the “delicate breathing” 
of summer flowers; or of the bleak moun- 
tain, the howling wilderness, the deep echo 
of the gloomy cave, the rustling of the with- 
ered grass, and the waving of the boughs 
| of the cypress. Precisely as the mind is 


— a 
————— ese 


- ee 2 
OL PT a a I ST SE a LL SS NTS 


SS aa 


errr reeset re eS 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


affected it interprets the language of the 
wind, and receives its portion of joy or sor- 
row from the associations which that fa- 
miliar sound conveys. This, however, can 
only be the case under ordinary circum- 
stances. There are situations in which the 
howling of the wind so closely resembles 


‘the low monotonous wail of inexhaustible 


sorrow, that the pleasure it is known to afford 
to some individuals of particular taste and 
feeling, can only be accounted for by sup- 
posing that it forcibly reminds them, by 


contrast, of their own uninterrupted enjoy: 


ment. In the same manner, those who love 
to listen to the nightly tempest are wont to stir 
the fire and pity the sailors, and then turn- 
ing inward to their own contracted circle of 
delight, congratulate themselves that it is 
broken in upon by no storms, invaded by no 
distress, and subject to no apprehensions of 
impending calamity. 

Amongst the varieties of sound rendered 
familiar to us by their frequent and natural 
occurrence, the voice of the storm is the 
most potent in its influence. Whether it 
comes bounding and booming over the sur- 
face of the raging sea, or roaring through 
the stately forest, it is alike grand and ter- 
rific—alike full of association with images 
of majesty and awe, and ideas of partial or 
universal destruction by a mighty but un- 
seen power. The speed with which it tra- 
vels seems scarcely to admit of any distine- 
tion in the feelings which it awakens, but 
swift as the wind may be in its irresistible 
progress, it is not more so than thought, to 
which even a sudden explosion. of matter 
affords time for the combination of a number 
of familiar ideas, by a process unknown to 
the mind in which it takes place. The rag- 
ing of the tempest, to those who have never 
heard it with feelings alive to the poetry of 
nature, would be described as one continu- 
ous and monotonous sound; but to those 
who have, it is marked by a variety of dis- 


tinctions, which accounts for the variety of 


sensations it occasions. To begin first with 
the hollow roar marking the interval when 
it seems to be retreating as if to gather 
strength, then the mighty gathering and the 
irresistible progress with which it rushes as 
swift as lightning through immeasurable 
space, leaving just time for the most appal- 


ET A EE 


i 


SS ee ae ae 


oa Ent ae: re ne CC ar Se CR NES Se Sa cries 
EE | 


THE POETRY OF SOUND. 


viy 


ing apprehensions, as it comes louder, and 
louder, and at last bursts upon us in one 
overwhelming tumult, mingling every ima- 
ginable combination of terrific sound, from 
the crash of falling matter, to the shrieks of 
wild despair. And it is this combination of 
impressions, each bringing along with it a 
train of associations, which constitutes what 
is called the excitement of the scene—an 
excitement either distressing or mvigorating, 
fearful or exquisitely delightful, according 
to the peculiar temper or capability of the 
mind of the listener. 

There are three important attributes be- 
longing to the wind, which combine to in- 
vest it with a character of intelligence. Mo- 
tion, which gives the appearance of life to 
ihe external world; Sound, which operates 
upon the mind through the medium of ano- 
ther sense, and resembles the universal 
voice of creation; and (if I may be allowed 
the expression) omnipresence, an attribute 
so potent in its influence upon our feelings, 
that from the searching, penetrating, and 
pervading power of the wind, we are accus- 
tomed to assign to it a character which dif- 
fers little from actual personality. From 
ancient times down to the present moment, 
the wind is spoken of as a swift and faithful 
messenger. We say—“tell it not to the 
winds,” lest they should carry the report to 
the utmost parts of the earth, and commu- 
nicate the tidings to its inmost recesses; 
“ Give thy sorrow to the winds,” that they 
may bear it away on their elastic wings, and 
disperse it too widely for any single particle 
to remain perceptible, through the regions 
of illimitable space; and the great master 
magician who could wield at will all the 
passions of human nature, and all the influ- 
ences of the elements, has thus powerfully 
represented the instrumentality of the winds 
in calling forth the self-upbraidings of a 
guilty conscience : 


O, it is monstrous ! monstrous! 

Methought, the billows spoke, and told me of it; 
The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d 
The name of Prosper !— 


Next to the sound of wind, that of water 
is perhaps the most poetical; whether it 
falls clear, and sharp, and tinkling drop by 


Se 


drop into the hollow basin of rock, or wan- 
ders through the woodland with a warbling 
and mellow voice, or glides in the sheeted 
water-fall down the sides of the mountain, 
with a soft and silvery sound, or rushes over 
its pent-up channel, in all the wild tumult of 
an impetuous torrent—whether rising and 
falling upon the distant shore, with a solemn 
and monotonous motion, or bellowing forth 
the mandates of the imperious ocean, it 
threatens to overwhelm and destroy, by 
sweeping every atom of moving or perisha- 
ble matter, into the unsearchable abyss of 
its unfathomable waters ; it is the same mu- 
sical voice that salutes our ear, whilst wan- 
dering over the mountains, reposing in the 
valley, or meditating upon the wave beaten 
shore. : ; 

As the representation of water in a land- 
scape, is said in the language of painters, to 
give repose to the picture by harmonizing 
with the colours of the sky, so the soothing 
and melodious sound of water, harmonizing 
with the winds, softens down the wild ery of 
different animals, and the sharp shrill min- 
strelsy of the woods, blending into one de- 
lightful symphony, the universal voice of na- || 
ture. If anything can be added, to render 
this symphony more perfect—if the refine- 
ments of art may so mingle with the sym- 
plicity of nature, as to enhance our enjoy- 
ment of both, it is when sweet music is heard |! 
upon the water; for music is the great mas- 
ter key which unlocks the feelings and pas- 
sions of mankind, bringing to light more 
hidden things than ever were called forth 
or revealed by the direct language of words. 
When plaintive, it addresses itself 1o sensi- 
bilities that have long been dormant, or never 
were awakened before, softening the flinty || 
heart, and suffusing with the warm tribute 
of genuine tenderness, eyes that had forgot- 
ten to weep; when light and joyous, it 
touches as with electric power, the springs 
of animal motion and elasticity, and in an 
instant the dark brow becomes enlivened, the || 
old resume their youth, the weary step is |; 
quickened, and the shadows of life are 
trampled down in the light and_ playful 
dance; when wild, and free, and national in 
its associations, it strikes the soul of the |} 
patriot, and the chains of the oppressor are |j 
burst asunder; while, planting himself on 


ee ae 


76 


his native hills, with a step as firm as the 
beetling rock, a heart as invincible as the 
storm, and a front as undaunted as the 
mountain’s brow, he defies the might of the 


invading foe, and nerves himself to defend’ 


his liberties or die; or when slow, and so- 
lemn, and majestic in its strains, it falls upon 
the spirit like the mantle of deep thought, 
soothing down the idle flutter of evanescent 
joy, the fruitless stirrings of ambition, the 
selfish and sordid cares that desolate the 
mind, and diffuses a holy calm, which if not 
religion itself, brings with it one of religion’s 
best and sweetest attributes—the sanctity of 
peace. 

The evil purposes to which music is capa- 
ble of being applied, might afford a fertile 
subject for the pen of the moralist ; its power 
over the human mind, is all that is attempted 
to be established here. Operated upon by 
this power, how many thousands of human 
beings have been led on to do, and to dare, 
what they would never have dreamed of 
attempting, but for the influence of this po- 
tent spell—potent in its immediate effects 
upon the feelings and affections, but, Oh! 
how much more potent in the recollections it 
awakens ! 

Music is the grand vehicle of memory, the 
key which unlocks the hoarded treasure of 
the soul. Words may define, and place be- 
fore our mental perceptions, as in a map, all 
that has been; but music, suspending the 
active energies of the mind, addresses itself 
directly to the soul, in a voice that makes 
itself be heard, amongst the tumult and ex- 
citement of present things—the voice of the 
irrevocable past. 

We listen, as to a curious specimen of art, 
to the national music of some distant country, 
about which we interest ourselves no farther 
than as it occupies a place upon the globe. 
We listen, we criticise, we remark upon the 
peculiarity of the air, and then turn away; 
but there may be one in the crowd of audi- 


country—a wanderer without a home— 
driven about from one inhospitable shore to 


ity of his suffermgs—he hears that well- 
known strain, and in an instant plunges into 
the very centre of his early attachments, and 


‘ tors—a heart-stricken exile from that very | ture without reverence, and without wor- 


another, and stupified with the very extrem- | to the sun without blessing his light; we 


the warm comforts of his ancestral, home. | desert plain; tous the dews may have fallen, 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


He sees again the stately woods that bound- 
ed his hereditary domain, and hears the 
rush of the torrent that guarded and defined 
its limits. He stands again upon his father’s 
hearth, and feels himself a free-born man, 
proud to maintain and strong to defend his 
liberties and rights. The music ceases; a 
shadow like the sable pall of death falls upon 
the ideal picture, and again he stands upon: 
ra foreign land, an alien, desolate, and alone. 
We have all known sonie blessed season 
of our lives, before the wheels of time had 
grown heavy with an accumulation of harass- 
ing cares, when the morning was bright |) 
upon our path, and the evening fell around 
us calm and serene as the repose of our 
own souls; when the friends we loved, loved 
us, and the smiles that betrayed our happi- 
ness were answered by smiles that told of 
gladness in return; when the fields and the 
woods, the mountains and the sky, were parts 
and pillars of that great temple, where we 
met to worship all that was sublime, eternal, 
and holy; when the moon was the centre of 
love and beauty, and the sun of life and light; 
when the rivers and wandering streams were 
a perpetual refreshment and delight, and the 
ocean was a flood of glory; when the dews, 
and the flowers, and the stars of night, blend- 
ed their sweet influences together, and the 
song of the birds, the murmuring of the wa- 
terfall, and the whispering of the gentle gales, 
rose in a perpetual anthem of gratitude and 
joy ; and when music, heard as it was heard 
then, told in its sweetest tones of all that we 
treasured of the past, all that we enjoyed of 
the present, and all that we hoped of the fu- 
ture. We have gone forth since then upon 
the pilgrimage of life, and the morning may 
have risen without brightness upon our path, 
and the evening may have come without re- 
pose; we may have missed the warm wel- 
come of the eyes we loved, and the smile 
that was wont to answer to our own; we 
may have stood alone in the temple of na- 


re eeeeneeememeeneemeeeeeeeeeeeneentneeeeenmnn ene eeene teed 


A 


ship; we may have looked up to the queen 
of night without beholding her beauty, and 


may have wandered where the rippling flow 
of the crystal stream brought no gladness, 
and turned away from the ocean as from a 


ed 


THE POETRY OF SOUND. 77 


the flowers may have bloomed, and the stars 
of night may have shone unheeded; and 
the grateful and harmonious voice of nature 
may have sounded without expression, weari- 
;some and void. But let the music of our 
| early days be heard again, and the flood- 
gates of memory are opened ; creation re- 
sumes the vividness of. its colouring; the 
melody of sound is restored; and the soul, 
expanding her folded wings, soars once 
again up to her natural element of long for- 
gotten happiness. 

We have said that the song of the caged 
_ bird, and that of the street minstrel, are 
|, hoth sad; and yet how many millions pass 
jon their daily walk, hearing, without re- 
garding either. It is because music ad- 
dresses itself to the most exquisite sensations 
of which we are capable, that its vulgar 
profanation is so peculiarly distressing ; it is 
because of its own purity, and refinement, 
and adaptation to delicate feelings, and high 
sentiments, that we grieve over its prostitu- 
tion to low purposes; it is because it is pro- 
perly the language of ecstacy or woe, that 
we cannot bear to hear it sold for filthy pence, 
grudgingly doled out, or still more grudging- 
ly denied. We hear, at intervals, amidst all 
the dust and tumult of the city, the tinkling 
sound of distant music, with the accompani- 
ment of a voice that might once have been 
sweet. We listen to a lively strain that 
should have echoed through stately halls, 
amongst marble pillars, and wreaths of flow- 
ers. The voice of the minstrel is strained 
beyond its natural pitch, but no ear will lis- 
ten; it is modulated, but no heart is charmed. 
The discord of city sounds, the rattle of 
wheels, and the busy tread of many feet, 
carry away the sound, and the sweetness 
is lost. A plaintive lay comes next, but it is 
alike unavailable in moving the multitude ; 
and the wretched minstrels wander on, a 
living exemplification of the impotence of 
music performed without appropriate feel- 
ing, persisted in without fitting accompani- 
ments of time and place, and poured upon un- 
grateful and inattentive ears. 

The cultivation of music as a science, 
clearly marks the progress of national civili- 
zation. In almost all countries on the face 
of the earth, however simple or barbarous 
the state of their inhabitants, humble at- 


a 


tempts to produce something like music 
have been detected, which proves beyond a 
doubt that there is a natural faculty or feel- 
ing in the human mind that pines for this 
peculiar enjoyment. As the eye is gratified 
with the blending of different colours, so is 


the ear regaled with the harmony of differ. 


ent sounds. The general aspect of the ex- 
ternal world, and the wonderful construc- 
tion of the organ of sight, show how admir- 
ably they are adapted to each other; yet 
much is left to the ingenuity of man, that he 
may exercise his faculties in carrying on the 
same principle of intellectual enjoyment de- 
rived from nature, and diffusing it through 
the region of art. As relates to the eye, 
this is most effectually accomplished by 
painting; as relates to the ear, by music. 
They each constitute links of the same de- 
gree of relative connection between the 
organs of sense and the operations of the 
mind. Painting is generally considered 


more intellectual than music, because it re- |. 
mains extant and tangible to criticism ; |; 


while music is more instantaneous, and 
more evanescent in its effect upon the feel- 
ings; but they have both worked their way 
as an accompaniment in the progress of 
civilization and general refinement; they 
have both occupied the lives of many able 
men, requiring the exercise of much pa- 
tience, and much intellect, to bring them to 
their present state of perfection; and they 
both afford pleasure, upon principles which 
form an important part of our nature, and 
are inseparable from it. 

It is true there are human beings so 
strangely constituted that deficient in no 
other faculty, they yet declare themselves 
incapable of being charmed by music; but 
rather than consign them at once to the 
well-known anathema against “the man 
that has not music in his soul,” I have some- 
times fancied that these individuals were 
influenced by prejudice, or early bias, 
against music in some particular character ; 
that they might probably each have their 
favourite song bird, and that if they could 
once be convinced that the music to which 
they professed themselves insensible, was 
only a different arrangement of the same 
notes they were accustomed to listen to 
with delight from a bird, they would no 


longer turn away with indifference from the 
music of the harp or the viol. There is 
one kind of music, which, above all others, 
I would make the test of their capability— 
the music of the voices of children. If they 
remain unmoved by that, the case would be 
fully proved against them, and there would 
appear no reason why sentence should not 
be immediately pronounced by declaring 
them 


“Fit for treason’s stratagems and spoils.” 


There is no sound that salutes us in our 
daily and familiar walk, more affecting than 
the voice of infancy in its happiest moods. 
It reminds us, with its fairy tones of silvery 
music, at once of what we are, and what 
we might have been; of all that we have 
lost in losing our innocence, of the flowers 
that still linger upon the path of life, of the 
sweetness that may yet be extracted from 
affection and simplicity, from tenderness 
and truth; and of the cherub choir that sing 
around the eternal throne. 

The poetry of village sounds, when heard 
by the evening wanderer, scarcely needs 
description here. ‘The clap of the distant 
gate, the bark of the faithful watch-dog, the 
bleat of the folded sheep, the faintly distin- 
suished shout of some victorious winner in 
the village game, the cry of the child under 
the evening discipline, and the hum of many 
voices, telling of the toils of the past, or of 
the coming day, are all poetical when they 
come floating upon the dewy air; though 
each in itself is discordant, and such as we 
should shun a nearer acquaintance with. 
Yet such is their intimate and powerful as- 
sociation with the calm of evening’s hour, 
the close of labor, and the refreshment of 
repose, that heard in the distance they are 
mellowed into music, and thus become sym- 
bolical of happiness and peace. 


and allure the mind onward from sensible to 
spiritual things, echo seems to have assumed 
her mysterious place in the great plan of 
creation. As shadow inthe visible world is 
more productive of poetical associations than 
objects which possess the qualities of sub- 
stance, light, and colour, so is echo in the 
region of sound. It speaks to us in a lan- 
guage so faithful, yet so airy and spiritual in 


As if to multiply our sources of enjoyment, 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


its tones, that we willingly adopt the fanciful 
conception of the poet, as the most natural 
and satisfactory manner of accounting for 
the existence of a being so sensitive and 
ethereal, as to be perpetually speaking in the 
language of the woods and waterfalls, yet 
never seen, even for a moment, in the depth 
of the cool forest, listening to the melody of || 
the winds, or stooping over the side of the | 
crystal fountain to catch the silvery fall of | 
its liquid music. How could a being of in- 
telligence be made so faithful, but by love; 
or so timid, but by suffering? And from 
these two common circumstances of love and 
sorrow, the poet has drawn materials for 
that beautiful and fantastic story, of echo 
sighing herself away, until her whole exis- | 
tence became embodied in a sound—a sound 
of such exquisite but mysterious sweetness, 
wandering like a swift intelligence from hill 
to hill, from cave to mountain crag, from 
waterfall to woodland, that he must be des- |} 
titute indeed of all pretentions to poetic feel- 
ing, who can listen to the voice of echo with- 
out connecting it in idea with the language 
of unseen spirits. 

As in the material world every visible ob- 
ject has its shadow, and every sound its 
echo, so in accordance with the great har- 
monious system of creation, no single idea 
is presented to the mind without its imme- 
diate affinity and connection with others; 
nor are we capable of any sensation, either 
painful or pleasurable, that does not owe 
half its weight and power to sympathy. 

Such is the vital character of the principle 
of poetry, that touch but the simplest flower 
which blooms in our fields or our meadows, 
and the life-giving spell widens on every 
side, including in its charmed circle the dews, 
and the winds, light, form, and loveliness, the | 
changes of the seasons, and an endless va- |! 
riety of associations, each having its own | 
circle, widening also, and extending for | 
ever without bound or limitation. Strike | 
but a chord of music, and the sound is echoed | 
and re-echoed, bearing the mind along with | 
it, far, far away, into the regions of illimita- 
ble space; examine but one atom extracted | 
from the unfathomable abyss of past time, 
apply it to the torch of poetry, and a flame 
is kindled which lights up the past, the 
present, and the future, as with the golden 


—— 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


| radiance of an eternal and unextinguishable 

fire. 

| ‘To speak of the poetry of one particular 
thing, is consequently like expatiating upon 
the sweetness of a single note of music. It 
is the combination and variety of these notes 
that charm the ear; just as it is the spirit of 
poetry pervading the natural world, extract- 
ing sweetness, and diffusing beauty, with 
the rapidity of thought, the power of intelli- 
gence, and the energy of truth, which consti- 
tutes the poetry of life. 


| al eae 
THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


LANGUAGE, as the medium of communi- 
cation, has the same relation to the ear and 
the mind, as painting has to the mind and 
the eye. The poetry of language, like that 
of painting, consists in producing upon the 
organs of sense such impressions as are 

| most intimately connected with refined and 
intellectual ideas; and it is to language that 
we appeal for the most forcible and obvious 
proofs that all our poetic feelings owe their 
existence to association. 

The great principle therefore to be kept 
in view by the juvenile poet is the scale (or 
the tone, as the popular phrase now is) of 
his associations; and this is of importance 
not only as regards his subjects, but his 
words: for let the theme of his muse be the 

highest which the human mind is capable 

| of conceiving, and the general style of his 

versification tender, graceful, or sublime, the 
occasional occurrence of an ill-chosen word 
may so arrestithe interest of the reader, by 
|| the sudden intervention of a different and 
|| inferior set of associations as entirely to de- 
stroy the charm of the whole. 

Without noticing words individually, we 
are scarcely aware how much of their sense 
is derived from the*relative ideas which cus- 
tom has attached to them. Take for exam- 
ple the word chariot, and supply its place in 
any poetical passage with a one-horse chaise, 
| or even a coach and six; and the hero who 


had been followed by the acclamations of a 
wondering people, immediately descends to 
the level of a common man, even while he 
_ travels more commodiously. 


| 


i 


| 
Dean Swift has a treatise on the “art of | 
sinking in poetry,” to which curious addi- 
tions might be made by striking out any ap- 
propriate expression from a fine passage, 
and, without materially altering the sense, 
supplying its place with some vulgar, famil- 
iar, or otherwise ill-chosen word. For ex- 
ample,— 
“ Come forth, sweet spirit, from thy cloudy cave.” 
Come out, &c. 
“ But hark ! through the fast flashing lightning of war, 
“ What steed of the desert flies frantic afar.” 
What steed of the desert novo gallops afar. 


We shall hold in the air conversation divine. 
* Around my ivy’d porch shall spring 
* Bach fragrant flower that drinks the dew.”’ 
‘Each fragrant flower that sups the dew. 
“To Bristol’s fount I bore with trembling care 
“ Her faded furm: she bow’d to taste the wave, 


* And died.” 


| 
*% We shall hold in the air a communion divine.’ : 
She sioop’d to sip the wave. | 


“ We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
“ And smooth’d down his lonely pillow, 
“That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his 
head, 
“ And we far away on the billow.” 


{ 

| 

*“ We thought as we hollowed his /zid/e bed, | 
* And dug out his lonely pillow, 

“That the foe and the stranger would walk o’er his 

head, &e. | 

| 


“ Be strong as the ocean that stems 
“ A thousand wild waves on the shore.”’ 


Nine hundred wild waves on the shore. 


‘This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes.”’ 
This life is all dappled, &c. 


There can scarcely be a more beautiful 
and appropriate arrangement of words, than 
in the following stanza from Childe Harold. 


“ The sails were fill’d, and fair the light winds blew, - 
“ As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
* And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
“ And soon were Jost in circumambient foam. 
*% And then, it may be of his wish to roam 
“ Repented he. but in his bosom slept 
“ The silent thought, nor from his lips did: come 
“ One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
“ And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.” 


Without committing a crime so heinous as 
that of entirely spoiling this verse, it is easy « 
to alter it so as to bring it down to the level I 
of ordinary composition; and thus we may 
illustrate the essential difference between 
poetry and mere versification. 


The sails were trimm’d and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to force him from his native home, 

And fast the white rocks vunish’d from his view, 

And soon were Jost amid the circling foam: 


80: 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


And then, perchance, of his fond wish to roam 
* Repeuted he, but in his hosom slept 

The wish, nor from his si/ent lips did come 

One mournful word, Whilst others sat and wept, 
And to the heedless breeze their fruilless moaning kept. 


It is impossible not to be struck with the 
harmony of the original words as they are 
placed in this stanza. The very sound is 
graceful, as well as musical; like the motion 
of the winds and waves, blended with the 
majestic movement of a gallant ship. “'T'he 
sails were filled” conveys no association 
with the work of man; but substitute the 
word trimmed, and you see the busy sailors 
at once. The word “waft” follows in per- 
fect unison with the whole of the preceding 
line, and maintains the invisible agency, of 
the “licht winds;” while the word “ glad ” 
before it, gives an idea of their power as an 
unseen intelligence. “Fading” is also a 
happy expression, to denote the gradual ob- 
scurity and disappearing of the “white 
rocks;” but the “circumambient. foam” is 
perhaps the most poetical expression of the 
whole, and such as could scarcely have pro- 
ceeded from a low or ordiaary mind. It is 
unnecessary however to prolong this minute 
examination of particular words. It may be 
more amusing to the reader to see howa 
poet, and that of no mean order, can unde- 
signedly murder his own offspring. 


To LIBERTY, BY SHELLEY. 


' “From a single clond the lightning flashes, 
* Whilst a thousand isles are illumin’d around, 
* Harthquake is ¢rumpling one city to ashes, 
. s > 2 . s 
“ But keener thy gaze than the lightning’s glare, 
* And swifter thy step than the earthquake’s tramp ; 
“ Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy STARE 
“ Mukes blind the volcanoes ; de 


The images called up before the mind, by 
this personification of earthquake in the act 
of “trampling,” and liberty “staring,” are 
sufficiently absurd to saalashee the sublimity 
of ‘the poem. 


To 


“Music, when soft voices die, 

‘ Vibrates in the memory— 

“ Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
“Live within the sense they quicken.” 


A Diner. 


> ® s 2 ° . 


“Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled, 
“The ra‘s in her heart 

“ Will have made their nest. 

“And the worms be alive in her golden hair.” 


'° 


Sone For Tasso. 


* * * * 2 s 


“ And if I think, my thoughts come fast, 
“T mix the present with the past, ; 
“ And each seems uglier than the last.” 


a 


OpE To NAPLEs. 


“ Naples ! thou heart of men, which ever pantest 
“ Naked, beneath the lédless eye of heuven !” 


The same fault, as it applies to imagery 
rather than to single words, is still more fre- 
quently found in poetry, because the ear as- 
sists the judgment in its choice of words, 
but imagery is left entirely to the imagina- 
tion. The same poet, rich as he is in passa- 
ges of beauty, must still supply us with 
examples. 


A FRAGMENT. 


“Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
‘* We can desire, O Love!’ 


A VISION OF THE SBA. 


“Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail 

* Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gaie ; 

“From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is driven, 

“Aud when lightning is loosed, like a deluge from 
heaven, 

‘ She sees the black trunks of the water-spout spin, 

** And bend as if heaven was raining in.” 


THE FUGITIVES. 


“In the court of the fortress 
’* Beside the pale portress, 
“ Like a blood-hound well beaten, 
“The bridegroom stands, eaten 
“ By shame ;” 


THE SuNSEYT. 


‘For but to see her were to read the tale 

“ Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts 
“ Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;— 

“ Her eyelashes were worn away with tears.” 


THE BoaT on THE SERCHIO. 


“ Our-boat is asleep on the Serchio’s stream, 

“Its sails are folded Jike thoughts in a dream, 

“The elm sways idly, hither and thither ; 

“ Dominic, the boatman, has brougiii. the mast, 

“ And the oar and the sails; but ’tis sleeping fast, 

&“ Ltke a beast unconscious of tts tether.” rm 


A vulgar proverb tells us that “seeing is 
believing ;” and it is quite necessary to see, 
in order 1 to believe, that the same poet who 
wrote that exquisite line, 


“Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream.” 


should go on to tell us in the language of 
poetry, that 


Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,” 


and that the boat itself 


“Ts sleeping fast, 
“ Like a beast unconscious of its tether.” 


The same poet has addressed himself to 
night, in language seldom surpassed for 
sublimity and grace; but even Here he calls 
up one image which spoils the whole. 


“ Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, 
“Star inwrought! ; 
“ Bind with thine hair the eyes of day, 
“\ Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
“Then wander o’er city, and,sea, and land, 
“ Touching all with thine opiate wand— 
‘¢ Come, long sought!” 


Lings ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DeatH or Na- 
‘ POLEON. 


2 * ® s 


“ And livest thou still, mother earth?  - 
“ Thou wert warming thy fingers old 
“ O’er the embers covered and cold 
“Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled——.” 


It is an ungracious task to busy one’s fin- 
gers in turning over the pages of our best 
writers, for the purpose of finding out their 
faults, or rather detecting instances of their 
forgetfulness ; yet if any thing of this kind 
can assist the young poet in his pursuit of 
excellence, it ought not to be withheld; 
especially as it can in no way affect the de- 
cided merits of those who have so few flaws 
in their title to our admiration. 


“ What behold I now? (says Young,) 
“ A wilderness of wonders burning round; 
“‘ Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres; 
“ Perhaps the illus of descending Gods. 
“Nor halt I here; my toil is but begun; 
“Tis but the threshold of the Deity.” 


The idea of “descending gods” requiring 
“villas,” or half-way houses to halt at, is 
wholly unworthy of the dignity of the author 
of “ Night Thoughts.” 

It is remarkable that Milton, whose choice 
of subjects would have rendered an inferior 
poet peculiarly liable to such errors, has a 
few, and but a very few, instances of the 
same kind. 


a a a I PS aa ep eli =i apa aol SEE 


“ And now went forth the moon, 
“‘ Such as in highest heaven, arrayed with gold 
“ Empyreal; from before her vanished night, 
“ Shot through with orient beams.” 


Through the whole of the works of this 
master mind, the passage which describes 
the combat between Satan and the Arch- 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


| sublimity and power: but the subject itself 


81 


angel, is perhaps the most in danger of fall- 
ing into burlesque, and even this has great 


—a fleshly combat in the air, is one which 
necessarily requires such descriptions and 
allusions as we find it difficult to reconcile | 
with our notions of ethereal or sublime. For } 
instance, when 


‘“‘ From each hand with speed retired, 
“ Where erst was thickest fight, the angelic throng, 
“ And left large field, unsafe within the wind 
“ Of such cumotion.”? 


And again, when the sword of Michael 
“shares all the right side of his antagonist” 
and 


“A stream of nectareous humour issuing flowed 
“ Sanguine, such as celestial spirits may bleed.’’ 


This, and the minute description of the 
process by which the wound is healed, have 
little connexion with our ideas of the essen- 
tial attributes of gods. Nor is there much 
dignity in the allusion made by Adam to his 
own situation after the fall, compared with 
that of Eve. 


—————" On me the curse aslope 
“ Glanced on the ground; with labour I must earn 
“ My bread.’’ 


But above all, in describing the building 
of the tower of Babel, our immortal poet 
seems wholly to have forgotten the neces- 
sary difference between the inhabitants of 
Karth, and those of Heaven. 


“ Forthwith a hideous gabble rises loud 

“ Among the builders; each to other calls 

“ Not understood; till hoarse, and all in rage, 

“ As mocked they storm ; great laughter was in heaven 
“ And looking down, to see the hubbub a SNE & 

% And hear the din.?— 


It is into such incongruities as these, that 
young poets and enthusiasts, whether young 
or old, are most apt to fall: young poets, 
because they are not so well acquainted 
with the world, and with the tastes and 
feelings of mankind in general, as to know 
what particular associations are most uni- 
formly attached to certain words; and en- | 
thusiasts, because their own thoughts are 
too vivid, and the tide of their own feelings 
too violent and impetuous, to admit of inter- 
ruption from a single word, or even a whole | 
sentence; and forgetting the fact that their 


ee Saas ca ro RR RAT OBULORES 57 


| 99 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


‘afrenzied brain. 


books will be read with cool discrimination 
rather than with enthusiasm like their own, 
they dash forth in loose and anomalous ex- 
pressions, which destroy the harmony, and 
weaken the force of their language. 

The introduction of unpoetical images 
may however be pardoned on the score of 
inadvertency, but it is possible for such 
images to be introduced in a manner which 
almost insults the feelings of the reader, by 
the doggrel or burlesque style which obtains 
favour with a certain class of readers, chiefly 
such as are incapable of appreciating what 
is beautiful or sublime. One specimen of 
this kind will be sufficient. It occurs in a 
volume of American poetry. | 


“ There’s masic in the dash of waves 
“ When the swift bark cleaves the foam; 
“ There’s mnsic heard upon her deck, 
“The mariner’s song of home. 
* When moon and star-beams smiling meet 
* At midnight on the sea— 
% And there 7s music onve a week 
“ In Scudder’s balcony.’ 


> « * ial e 


“The moonlight music of the waves 
“Ty storms is heard no more, 

“% When the living lightning mocks the wreck 
‘“ At midnight on the shore; 

“ And the mariner’s song of home has ceased ; 
“is course is on the sea — 

* And thereis music when tt rains 
* In Scudder’s balcony.” 


_ What could induce the poet to spoil his 
otherwise pretty verses in this manner, it is 
difficult to imagiue; but as this is by no 
means a solitary instance of the kind, we 
are led to suppose that the minds in which 
such incongruities originate, must be influ- 
enced by the popular notion of imitating 
Lord Byron, in the wild vagaries which 
even his genius could scarcely render en- 
durable. What his genius might have 
failed to reconcile to the taste of the public, 
was however sufficiently effected, by the 
proofs we find thruughout his writings, of 
the agony of a distorted mind, of that worst 
and deepest of all maladies, which hides its 
internal convulsions under the mask of hu- 
mour, and throws around, in lurid flashes of 
wit and drollery, the burning ebullitions of 
There is. a depth of ex- 
perience, and bitterness of feeling, in the 
playful starts of familiar commonplace with 
which he forcibly arrests the tide of his own 
tenderness, or “turns to burlesque” his own 


$$. 


elevated sentiments, which sets all imitation 
at defiance ; and might, if properly felt and 
fully understood, serve as a warning to those 
who aspire to be poets in the style of Byron, 
that to imitate his eccentricities without the 
power of his genius and the pathos of his 
soul, is as obviously at variance with good 
taste, natural feeling, and common sense, as 
to attempt to interest by aping the frolic 
of the madman, without the deep-seated 
and burning passions that have overthrown 
his reason. 

Another prevailing fault in poetry, as in- 
timately connected with association as the 
foregoing, is the introduction of words or pas- 
sages, In which the ideas connected with 
them are too numerous, or too remote from 
common feeling and common observation, 
for the attention to travel with the same ra- 
pidity as the eye. Under such circumstan- 
ces the mind must either pause and examine 
for itself, or pass over the expression as an 
absolute blank; in either of which cases, the 
chain of interest and intelligence is broken, 
and the reader is either wearied, or unin- 
formed as to the meaning of+the writer. 

The same poet who has afforded us so 
many instances of his own faults, will serve 
our purpose again. 


“the whirl and the splash 
“ As of some hideous engine, whose brazen teeth smash 


“The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the 
screams 


*“ And hissings craw] fast o’er the smooth ocean streams, 
* Hach sound like a centipede.’’ 


Descriptions such as this, are beyond the 


power of the most vivid imagination to con- 
vert into an ideal scene: all is confusion, be- 
cause the mind no sooner forms cone picture, 
than other objects, differently coloured, are 
forced upon it, and consequently the whole 
is indefinite and obscure. 
Again, in the Song ofa Spirit— 
“ And as a veil in which I walk through heaven, 
“T have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds, 


“ And lastly, light, whose inferfusion dawns 
“ In the durk space of interstellar air.” 


Milton is by no means free from this fault. 
Witness his frequent crowding together of 
appellations, which even the most learned 
readers must pause before they can proper- 
ly apply, as well as passages like the follow- 
ing, with which his works abound. 


SNE Te See ee Bee eh 


ee nts tere ences 


i 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


——_——_——_——“ There let him victor sway, 
* As battle hath adjudged, from this new world 
“Retiring, by his own doom alienated ; 

* And henceforth monarchy with thee divide 

“ Ofall things parted by the empyreul bounds, 

“ THis quadrature, from thy orbicular world ; 

“ Or try thee, now more dangerous to his throne.” 


But of all our poets, Young is perhaps the 
most liberal in bestowing upon his readers 
examples of this kind. His ideas. are, ab- 
solutely ponderous. His associations crowd 
upon us in such stupendous masses, that we 
are often burdened and fatigued, instead 
of being refreshed and delighted with his 
otherwise sublime, and always imaginative 
style. 

The poetry of language consists, there- 
fore, not only of words which are musical, 
harmonious, and agreeable in themselves, 
but of appropriate words, so arranged as 
that their relative ideas shall flow into the 
mind, without more exertion of its. own, 
than results from a gentle and natural stim- 
ulus. That quality in poetry which is 
most essentially conducive to this effect, is 
simplicity; and perhaps, from the humble 


ideas we attach to the word, simplicity is too 


much despised by those who are. unac- 
quainted with its real power and value. 
Yet is there nothing more obvious, upon re- 
flection, than the simplicity of the language 
of some of our best poets. We feel that it is 
only from not having been the first to think 
of it, that we have not used precisely the 
same language ourselves. It contains no- 
thing apparently beyond our own reach and 
compass. The words which terminate the 
lines seem to have fallen naturally and with- 
out design into their proper places; and the 
metre flows in like the consequence of an 
impulse, rather than an effort. Simplicity 
in poetry, when the subject is well chosen 
and skilfully managed, like order in archi- 
tecture, where the materials and workman- 
ship are good, establishes a complete whole, 
which never fails to please, not only the 
scientific observer, but even those who are 
least acquainted with the principles from 
which their gratification arises. 

Our business thus far has been to point 
out what is not poetical in language; and 
so far as it serves to establish the fact, that 
the poetry of language, as well as that of 
feeling, arises from association, the task can 


that which now lies before us is one of a 
much more grateful character. 

We are told by Blair, that it is an essen- 
tial part of the harmony (and consequently 
of the poetry) of language, that a particular 
resemblance should be maintained between 
the object described, and the sounds em- 
ployed in describing it; and of this we give | 
practical illustrations in our common con- 
versation, when we speak of the whistling 
of winds, the buzz and hum of insects, the 
hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber, 
and many other instances, where the word 
has been plainly framed upon the sound it 
represents. ; 

Pope also tells us, in his Poetical Essay 
on Criticism, 


1 
scarcely be altogether uninteresting: but 


“?Tis not enough no harshness gives offence ; 
“The sound must seem an echo to the sense 

* Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, | 
“ And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flaws ; 

“ But when loud surges lash the sounding slivre, | 
“The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.” 


And faithful to his own maxims, he thus |! 
describes the felling of trees in a forest: | 


* On all sides round the forest hurls her aks 
“Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brawn, 
“Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down,” 


“ Loud sounds the air, redoubling stroke on strokes, | 


liarly adapted by their sound tg the length- 
ened and melancholy cadence with which 
they are generally uttered ; and quick, lively, 
frolic, fun, are equally expressive of what 
they describe. Of the same character are 
the following examples:—whirring of the 
partridge—booming of the bittern, &c. 


“ Scarce 
“ The bittern knows his time. with bill ingulft 


The words alone, gone, no more, are pecu- 
“To shake the sounding marsh,” 
Tug Horse DRiNKING IN SUMMER. 


‘6 He takes the river at redoubled draughts, 
“ And with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave.” 


Storm In SUMMER. 
“The tempest growls: 


“ Rolls its awful burden on the wind. 


Follows the loosen’d aggravated roar, 

“ Bularging, deenening, mingling; real on peat 
“ Crush’d horrible. convulsing heaven and earth. 
* Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, 

“ Or prone descending rain.” 


On WINTER. 


j 
5 


‘¢ At last the rous’d-up river pours along, 
“ Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes ” &c. 
‘Tumbling thro’ rocks abrupt,”’ &c. , 


‘ T hear the far-off curfew sound 
‘“ Over some wide water’d shore, 
“Swinging slow with sullen roar.” 


“The reeling clouds 
“ Stagger with dizzy poise.’””—THoMSON. 


“Have you not made an universal shout, 

‘ That Tyber trembled underneath his banks, 
“To hear the replication of your sounds, 

“ Made in his concave shores ?”—SHAKESPEARE. 


But above all our poets, he who sung in 
darkness most deeply felt and studied the 
harmony of his versification. Shut out from 
the visible world, his very soul seemed 
wrapped in music, and confined to that one 
medium of intelligence, through it he receiv- 
ed as well as imparted, the most exquisite 
delight. Witness his own expression,— 


$$$ $$ __________——__ "tg 
“ Feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
“ Harmonious numbers.”’ 


“The multitude of angels, with a shout 
‘Loud as from numbers without number.”? 


“The harp 
“ Wf¥ad work and rested not, the solemn pipe, 
“And dulcimer, all organs of sweet stop, 
‘All sounds on fret by string or golden wire, 
“Temper’d soft tunings,” &c. 


The contrast between the two following 
passages, displays to great advantage the 
poet’s art. , 


“On a sudden, open fly, 
‘“ With impétuous recoil, and jarring sound, 
‘Th’ infernal doors; and on their hinges grate 
“¢ Harsh thunder.”’ 


“ Heaven opened wide 
“ Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 
“ On golden hinges turning.” 


And again,— 


* When the merry bells ring round, 

“ And the jocund rebecks sound, 

“To many a youth, and many a maid \ 
‘Dancing in the chequer’d shade.” 


“ Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow 
“ Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.” 


“Now gentle gales, 
“ Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
“ Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
“ Those balmy spoils.” 


“Tripping ebb, that stole 
“With soft foot toward the deep,” &c. 


“ Sabrina fair, 
“ Listen where thou art sitting 
“Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave.” 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


= 


“ At last a soft and solemn breathing sound 

*“‘ Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes, 

“ And stole upon the air, that even silence 

“‘ Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 
“ Deny her nature, and be never more 

“ Still to be so displaced.” 


“How sweetly did they float upon the wings 

“ Of silence, through the empty vaulted night, 
‘ At every fall smoothing the raven down 

“ Of darkness till it smiled.” 

“* Midnight shout and revelry, 

“ Tipsy dance and jollity.”’ 

“The sun to me is dark 

“ And silent as the moon, 

‘’ When she deserts the night, 

‘“ Wid in her vacant interlunar cave.””—MILTON. 


The measure of the following two lines is 
remarkably descriptive of the tardy leave- 
taking of our first parents, when they pass- 
ed for the last time through the gates of 
Paradise. 


“They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
“ Through Eden took their solitary way.” 


How bright and crystalline is the follow- 
ing description: 


“ How from the sapphire fount, the crisped brook, 
“ Rolling on orient pearl, and sands of gold, 
“With mazy error, under pendent shades.” 


The following specimens, from different 
authors, are all illustrative of the harmony 
of numbers. 


“ Flow beautiful is night! 
“ A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
“ No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain 
‘ Breaks the serene of heaven: 
“Tn full orb’d glory yonder moon divine 
* Rolls through the dark blue depths. 
‘ Beneath her steady ray 
“The desert circle spreads, 
“Like a round ocean girded with the sky. 
“ How beautiful is night !’’—SouTHey. 


“ From peak to peak the rattling crags among, 
“ Leaps the live thunder !” 


“ And first one universal shriek there rush’d, 
“Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

“ Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush’d, 
“Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash 


“Of billows: but at intervals there gush’d, ‘i fi 


“ Accompanied with a convulsive splash, = 
“ A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
“ Of some strong swimmer in his agony.’’—BYRON. 


“ And dashing soft from rocks around, 
“ Bubbling runnels join’d the sound.””—CoLLIns. 


“That orbed maiden with white fire laden 
“ Whom mortals call the moon, 
“ Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor 
“ By the gy breezes strewn.”’—SHELLEY. 


i Sad, on the soliende of night, the sound, 
3 As i in the stream he plung’d, was teak” around : 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


“Then all was still,—the wave was rough no more, 
“The river swept as sweetly as before, 
“The willows wav’d, the moonbeams shone serene, 
“ And peace returning brooded o’er the scene.” 

H. K. WuitTe. 


Gray is scarcely inferior to Milton in his 
musical versification; indeed so much less 
important are the subjects of his muse, and 
consequently so much more easily woven in 
with soft and musical words, that as regards 
mere versification he stands unrivalled in the 
literature of our country. 


‘“ Now the rich stream of music winds along, 
** Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong.” 


* Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep, 
‘Isles, that crown th’ Egean deep, 
“ Fields that cool Ilissus laves.” 


“ Bright-eyed fancy, hov’ring o’er, 
“ Scatters from her pictured urn 
“ Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.” 


“ Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

*“ While proudly riding o’er the azure realm 

“In gallant trim the gildéd vessel goes ; 

“ Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ; 

“ Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, 

“ That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.” 


“ Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 
‘¢ Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour’d wings.”’ 


“ Now the storm begins to lour, 

“ (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) 
Tron sleet of arrowy shower 

“ Flurtles in the darkened air.” 


“Now my weary lips I close: 
“ Leave me, leave me to repose.” 


Nothing can be more expressive of weari- 
ness than the simple words which compose 
|| these two lines. We could scarcely find in 
j/our hearts to detain the enchantress who 
utters them more than once, even were she 
capable of realizing to our grasp the imag- 
inary dominion of a world. 
The elegy written in a country church- 
yard is altogether the most perfect specimen 
| of poetical harmony which our language af- 
fords; but like some other good things it 
has been profaned by vulgar abuse, and 
many who have been compelled to learn 
‘| these verses for a task at school, retain in 
‘| after life a clear recollection of their sound, 
|| without any idea of their sense, or any per- 
| ception of their beauty. Still this elegy 
contains many stanzas, and one in particu- 
| lar, to which the ear must be insensible in- 
baecd if it can listen without delight. 


l 
“ The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
} “The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, 


“The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
*“ No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.” 


Amongst our modern poets, there is not 
one who possesses a more ¢xquisite sense of 
the appropriateness of sou.id and imagery, 
than Moore. His charmed numbers flow 
on like the free current of a melodious 
stream, whose associations are with the sun- 
beams and the shadows, the leafy boughs, 
the song of the forest birds, the dew upon 
the flowery bank, and all things sweet, and 
genial, and delightful, whose influence is 
around us in our happie.t moments, and 
whose essence is the wealth that lies hoarded 
in the treasury of nature. In reading the 
poetry of Moore, our attention is never ar- 
rested by one particular word. His sylla- 
bles are like notes of music, each composing 
parts of an harmonious whole : and the in- 
terest they excite, divided between the ear 
and the mind, is a continued tide of gratifi- 
cation, gently but copiously poured in upon 
the soul. There is scarcely a line of his 
that would not gratify us by its sound, even 
were we ignorant of its sense; but the per- | 
fect correspondence between both is what || 
constitutes the soul-felt music of his lyre. 


It would be as useless to select passages || 


from what is altogether harmonious as to 
point out particular parts in.a chain of 
beauty, whose every link is perfect; but 
from an almost affectionate remembrance 


of the delight with which they first struck | 


upon my youthful ear, [am tempted to quote 
a few examples powerfully illustrative of the 
poetry of language. 


“Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, 
“ In a blue summer ocean far off and alone.” 


“ Not the silvery lapse of the summer eve dew.” 


““T saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
‘“ A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on; 

“T came when the sun o’er that beach was declining, 
‘“ The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.” 


‘“ There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream, 
‘“ And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; 
“In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream, 
‘To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.” 


What a picture of innocent enjoyment is 
here! A picture whose vividness and beau- 
ty are recalled in after life as light and col- 
ouring only—whose reality is gone with the 
innocence which gave it birth. 


t 


— 


86 


‘| In the poet’s farewell to his harp, the last 
|| two lines are exquisitely poetical : 


“Ifthe pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 
“ Have throbb’d at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone; 
“ Twas but as the wind passing heedlessly over, 
“ And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own!” 


A few more passages, quoted at random 
and without comment, will sufficiently illus- 
trate what is meant by embodying in ap- 
propriate words, ideas which are purely 
poetical. 


‘So fiercely beautiful, in form and eye, 
& Like war’s wild planet in a summer sky.” 


———— “ who with heart and eyes 
“ Could walk where liberty had been, nor see 
“ The shining foot-prinis of her Deity.” 


“But ill-according with the pomp and grace, 
“ And silent lull of that volupiuous place !”? 


“and gave 
“ His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave 
“Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid.” 


—— “still nearer on the breeze, 
“ Come those delicious dream-like harmonies.—” 


** Awhile they dance before him, then divide, 
“ Breaking like rosy clouds at eventide 
“ Around the rich pavilion of the sun—” 


“°Tis moonlight over Oman’s sea ; 
“ Her banks of pearl and palmy isles 
“ Bask in the night-beam beauteously, 
“ And her blue waters sleep in smiles.” 


.“To watch the moonlight on the wings 
“ Of the white pelicans, that break 
“ The azure calm of Meris’ lake.” 


‘* when the west 
“ Ovens her golden bowers of rest.” 


“ Our rocks are rough, but smiling there, 
“ Th’ acacia waves her yellow hair, 

“ Lonely and sweet, nor lov’d the less, 
“For flowing in a wilderness. 


“Our sands are rude, but down their slope, 
“ The silvery-footed antelope 

“ As gracefully and gaily springs, 

* As o’er the marble courts of kings.” 


_ Nor is the prose of this delicious bard less 
musical than his verse. 'The very cadence 
of his sentences would charm us, independ- 
ent of their meaning, were it possible to lis- 
ten without understanding ; but his choice 
of words is such, that their mere sound con- 
veys no small portion of their sense. 


“ Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed such a scene. 
The ground that formed the original site of the garden 
had, from time to time, received continual additions ; 
and the whole extent was laid out with that perfect 
taste, which knows how to wed Nature with Art, with- 
out sacrificing her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, lead- 
ing through wildernesses of shade and fragrance—elades 
opening, as if to afford a play-ground for the sunshine— 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


temples, rising on the very spots where imagination her- 
self would have called them up; and fountains and 
lakes, in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly 
courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace 
—such was the variety of feature that diversified these 
fair gardens; and, animated as they were on this occa- 
sion, by the living wit and loveliness of Athens, it af- 
forded a scene such as my own youthful fancy, rich as it 
was then in images of luxury and beauty, could hardly 
have anticipated. 

“For, shut out, as I was by my creed, from a future 
life. and having no hope beyond the narrow horizon of 
this, every minute of delight assumed a mournful pre- 
ciousness in my eyes, and pleasure, like the flower of the 
cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighbour- 
hood of death.” r 


“Kvery where new pleasures, new interests awaited 
me; and though melancholy, as usual, stood always 
near, her shadow fell but half way over my vagrant 
path, and left the rest more welcomely brilliant from the 
contrast.” 


“Through a range of sepulchral grots underneath, the 
humbler denizens of the tomb are deposited,—looking 
out on each successive generation that visits them, with 
the same face and features they wore centuries ago. 
Every plant and tree that is consecraied to death, from the 
asphodel flower to the mystic plantain, lends its sweetness 
or shadow to this place of tombs; and the only noise that 
disturbs its eternal calm, is the low humming sound of the 
priests at prayer, when a new inhabitant ts added to the 
silent city.” 


“The activity of the morning: hour was visible every 
where. Flights of doves and lapwings were fluttering 
among the leaves, and the white heron, which had been 
roosting all night in some date tree, now stood sunning 
its wings on the green bank, or floated, like living silver, 
over the flood. The flowers, too, both of land and water, 
looked freshly awakened ;—and, most of all, the superb 
lotus, which had risen with the sun from the wave, and 
was now holding up her chalice for a full draught of his 
light.” 

“To attempt to repeat, in her own touching words, 
the simple story which she now related to me, would be || 
like endeavouring to note down some strain. of unpre- | 
meditated music, with those fugitive graces, those felii at 


ties of the moment, which no art can restore, as they || 


first met the ear.” 

“The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, 
whose wings were of the hue of the grey sands over 
which he fluttered. “Why (thought 1) may not the 
mind, like this bird, take the colour of the desert, and 
sympathise in its austerity, its freedom, and tis calm I”? 


It would scarcely be possible to exchange 
any one word in the writings of Moore for 
another more fitting or appropriate, nor can 
the young poet be too often reminded that 
it is appropriateness, rather than uniform 
elevation of diction which he has to keep in 


view. There are certain kinds of metre to 
which peculiar expressions are adapted— 
expressions which even if the subject were 
the same, would be extremely out of place 
elsewhere; and here again Moore is preem- 
inent for the skill with which he maintains 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


| (if we may so call it) the proportions of his 
verse, by keeping the familiar and playful 
language with which he sports like a child 
with his rainbow-tinted bubbles, always in 
their proper degree of subordination; so 
that they never break in upon the pathos of 
a sentiment, or check the flow of elevated 
thought. 

Lines on the burial of Sir John Moore af 
ford a beautiful instance of what may be 
called ¢act in the choice and application of 
words. It is not the splendour of an excited 
imagination flashing upon us as we read 
these lines, which constitutes their fascina- 
tion; but the entire appropriateness of the 
words, and the metre, to the scene described. 
Simple as these verses are throughout— 
simple almost as the language of a child, 
and therefore to be felt and understood by 
| the meanest capacity, they yet convey ideas 
of silence, solemnity, and power, such as 
especially belone to the hour of night, the 
awful nature of death, and the indignant 
| Spirit of the unconquered warrior. 
|| Beyond the mere appropriateness of 
| words, poetical language affords a deeper 
| interest, in those rapid combinations of 
| thought and feeling which a few words may 
| convey, by introducing in descriptions of 
| present things allusions to those which are 
|| remote, and which from being easily and 
| naturally presented to the mind of the rea- 
der, glide in like the shadow of a passing 


_ || cloud upon the landscape, without obscuring 
_ 4| Our view, or interrupting our contemplation 


of the scene. 

Crabbe, who is by no means remarkable 
for the harmony of his numbers, aboundsin 
passages of this kind; and it is to them that 

| we are mainly indebted for the interest, as 
well as the power of his poetry. The first in- 
stance which occurs to me, is in the intro- 
duction to the sad story of the smugglers, 
and poachers—a story almost unrivalled for 
the natural and touching pathos with which 
it is described. 


* One day is like the past, the year’s sweet prime 
“ Like the sad fall,—for Rachel heeds not time; 

“ Nothing remains to agitate her breast, 

“Spent is the tempest, and the sky at rest ; 

“ But while it raged her peace its ruin met, 

“ And now the sun is on her prospects set ; 

“ Leave her, and Jet us her distress explore, 

“ She heeds it not—she has been left before.” 


87 


Here is the story of the sufferer, told at 
once by a sudden transition from the de- 
scription of her settled grief, to that which 
had been the bane of her past life—its me- 
lancholy cause. Yet the chain of associa- 
tion so far from being broken acquires ten- 
fold interest from the transition of thought,. 
and we hasten on to learn the particular 
history of this lonely being, who has experi- 
enced the most melancholy fate of woman— 
that of being “left.” 

Again, towards the conclusion of the same 
story, when Rachel finds the dead body of 
her lover, and, as if incapable of compre- 
hending any further grief, takes no note of 
the intelligence that her husband is dead 
also. 


—_—_—_—__——_" But see, the woman creeps 
“Tike a lost thing, that wanders as she sleeps. 
‘See here her husband’s body—but she knows 
“ That other dead ! and that her action shews. 
“Rachel! why look you at your mortal foe? 
She does not hear us—achither will she go?” 


Here we have three distinct ideas, not 
necessarily connected with each other, pre- 
sented to us in quick succession, without any 
interruption.to the interest excited by each in- 
dividually. First, we see the dead body of 
the husband, and then “that other dead,” 
with the total abstraction of the mourner, 
who in her silent grief sees.only one, and 
this proves the strength of her affection, 
which life might have subdued, but which 
death reveals in all its overwhelming power ; 
then follows the simple query, “ whither will | 
she go?” presenting us at once with a view | 
of her future life, and its utter desolation. | 

Moore has many passages of the same | 
description :— : 


“ Here too he traces the kind visitings 

“Of woman’s love, in those fair, living things 

“ Of land and wave, whose fate,—in bondage thrown 
“ For their weak loveliness—is like her own!’ 


The reader may, without any flaw in the 
chain of association, pause here to give one 
sigh to the fate of woman, and then go on 
with the poet while he proceeds to describe 
other fair things, amongst which the stran- 
ger was wandering. 

There is somewhere in the writings of 
Wordsworth a highly poetical passage, 
equally illustrative of the subject in question. 


88 


It is where he describes a mourner whose 
grief has all the bitterness of self-condem- 


nation :— 


“It was the season sweet of budding leaves, 

“ Of days advancing towards their utmost length, 

“ And small birds singing to their happy mates. 

“ Wild is the music of the autumnal wind 

* Amongst the faded woods ; but these blythe notes 
“ Strike the deserted to the heart ;—JI speak 

“ Of what Iknow, and what we feel within.” 


When he leaves the subject which he has 
so beautifully described, to attest by his own 
experience, and by his knowledge of human 
nature, the truth of what he has asserted, 
our thoughts are not diverted from the ori- 
ginal theme, but our feelings are riveted 
more closely to it by the force of this attesta- 
tion, which meets with an immediate re- 
sponse from every human bosom. 

In Gray’s description of Milton, where he 
says :— 

: “ The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
“ Where angels tremble while they gaze, 


“ He saw, but, blasted with excess of light, 
* Clos’d his eyes in endless night.” 


The transition is immediate from what the 
poet saw, to what he suffered; yet the asso- 
ciations are highly poetical, and so clear as 
in no way to interfere with each other. 

It is related of the Emperor Nero, when 
in the last mental agonies of his wretched 
life, he sought from others the death he shud- 
dered to inflict upon himself, that finding 
none who heeded his appeal, he pathetically 
exclaimed, “ What! have I neither a friend 
nor an enemy?” Although no man could 
possibly be thinking less of poetry than the 
fallen monarch at that moment, yet such is 
the language which an able poet would 
have used, to express the three separate 
ideas of the helplessness of Nero’s situation, 
his pitiful appeal to the kindness of his peo- 
ple, and his internal consciousness that if he 
had not a friend, he had at least done enough 
to deserve the stroke of an enemy in his last 
hour. 

Personification is another figure of speech 
by which poetical associations are powerful- 
ly conveyed. It seems to be peculiarly in 
accordance with the infant mind—infant 
either in experience or in civilization, to iden- 
tify every thing possessed of substance: mo- 
tion, form, or power, with an intelligence of 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


its own; hence the strong disposition shown 
by children to revenge themselves upon 
whatever has given them pain, and to battle, 
however vainly, with all that obstructs the 
gratification of their wishes; and hence those 
bursts of figurative language with which 
semi-barbarous people are accustomed to 
express what they deeply feel. As if to ac- | 
commodate themselves to the natural tastes 
and feelings of mankind, originating in the 
principles of our nature, all good poets have 
made frequent use of this style, and always, 
when it is well managed, with great effect. 
How beautiful is the following passage from 
Barry Cornwall, where he speaks of the 
wind murmuring through the pine trees on 
mount Pelion :— 

( 


“ And Pelion shook his piny locks, and talked 
“Mournfuilly to the fields of Thessaly.” 


Shakespeare abounds in examples of this 
kind, in no one instance more touching or 
powerful than in the lament of Constance, 
after the French king tells her she is as fond 
of grief as of her child :— 


“ Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
“Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me; 
“ Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
‘Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
“Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
“Then have I reason to be fond of grief.” 


The following example from Cowper is 
remarkable for its elegance and beauty. Al- 
luding to the lemon and the orange trees—_ ae 


“The golden beet of Portugal and Western radia baat 


he says, they / 


‘ Peep through the polished foliage at the storm, 
“ And seem to smile at what they need not fear.” 


The next figure of speech noticed by 
Blair is metaphor, of immense importance 
to the poet, because, if for one moment 
he loses the chain of association, an image 
wholly out of place is introduced, the charm 
of his metaphor is destroyed, and his verse 
becomes contemptible. From Lord Boling- 
broke, whose writings abound in beauties of 
this kind, Blair has selected one example of 
perfect metaphor. The writer is describing 
the behaviour of Charles the First to his 
parliament. “In a word,” says he, “about 
a month after their meeting, he dissolved | 


I} 


See | epee nee 
——. 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


them; and, as soon as he had dissolved them, 
j he repented ; but he repented too late of his 
rashness. Well might he repent, for the 
vessel was now full, and this last drop made 
ithe waters of bitterness overflow.” 

The works of Ossian abound with beauti- 
ful and correct metaphors; such as that on 
a hero: “In peace, thou art the gate of 
spring ; in war, the mountain storm.” Or 
this on woman: “She was covered with the 
light of beauty ; but her heart was the house 
of pride.” : 

Young, in speaking of old age, says, 

“ It should 


“ Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore 
* Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.” 


In the following lines Prior gives us an 
example of allegory, which may be regard- 
ed as continued metaphor. 

“ Did I but purpose to embark with thee 

“On the smooth surface of a summer’s sea, 

** While gentle zephyrs blow with prosperous gales, 

* And fortune’s favour fills the swelling sails, 


“ But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 
“ When the winds whistle and the tempests roar ?’’ 


Beyond these figures of speech, there yet 
remain hyperbole, apostrophe, comparison, 
and a variety of others, which the young 
poet would do well to study, and which are 
scientifically described in books expressly 
devoted to the purpose; I shall therefore 
pass on to the colloquial language of the 
Irish-——the simple, unsophisticated, genuine, 
Irish, which has always appeared to me par- 
ticularly imaginative, powerful and pathetic ; 
but unfortunately for the writer, it is only 
heard in moments of excitement, of which the 
feelings alone\keep a record, and this record 
|| being one of impressions rather than words, 
| it is difficult to recall the precise expressions 
which, striking the chords of sympathy, pro- 
duce a momentary echo to the music of the 
soul. - 

Mrs C. Hall, in an Irish story, illustrative 
of the strong and metaphorical language of 
the Irish peasantry, makes this observation 
proceed from the mouth of a poor man, who 

had listened to the recital of the misfortunes 
of one who was brave, just and virtuous. 


“The gardener pierces the vine even to bleeding, and 
suffers the bramble to grow its own way.” 


But it is to the author of Traits and Sto- 


a eee 


| his native language. 


89 


ries of the Irish Peasantry, that we are 
chiefly indebted for our knowledge of what 
is peculiarly national and characteristic in 
He gives us a spirited 
and amusing chapter upon Irish swearing, 
by no means confined to those malevolent 
wishes which it would be a painful task to 
transcribe, but which, as they issue from the 
impassioned lips of the Irishman, have some- 
thing of that sentimental nature (though far 
deeper in its character) triumphantly dis- 
played by Acres before his friend. “May 
the grass grow before your door,” conveysa 
striking picture of desolation and ruin. 
“May you melt off the earth like the snow 
off the ditch,” is another figure of the same 
description. 

If positive good had the power to neutra- 
lize evil, we might comfort ourselves in read- 
ing such expressions as these, with what the 
author goes on to tell us, that the Irish have 
a superstitious dread of the curse of the pil- 
grim, mendicant, or idiot, and of the widow 
and the orphan. And so high is his idea of 
the duty he owes to these, that his heart is 
ever open to their complaint, and his hand 
ready to assist them. Thusit is not uncom- 
mon for them to say of a man whose affairs 
do not prosper, “He has had some poor 
body’s curse ;” and a woman who unexpect- 
edly receives a guest, welcome in no way 
except that she was a stranger and a wand- 
erer without a home, is described as exclaim- 
ing, “'The blessing o’ goodness upon you, 
dacent woman.” 

The frequent recurrence of the word heart 
in its unlimited capacity, gives a warmth and 
fervency to their expressions of tenderness 
or sorrow. “The beloved fair boy of my 
heart.” “Father! son of my heart! thou art 
dead from me!” ‘Heavy and black was 
his heart.” “The world’s goodness is in 
your heart.” “Light of my eyes, and of my 
heart ;” but above all, “ Cushla machree— 
the pulse of my heart,” ismost expressive of 
that deep-toned affection which the heart 
alone can understand. 

What can exceed the following words for 
refined yet genuine and fervent sympathy, 


such as those who have been intimately ac- 


ee ee ae 
- eR RN <r 


quainted with suffering alone can feel; and |} 


hence it is that the Irish derive their pathos, 


for what strain of human’ misery’ can’ be’ |] 


ie 


touched, to which their own experience has 

not an echo ? 

“ Hunger and sickness and sorrow may 
‘| come upon you when you'll be far from your 
own, and from them that love you.” Or, 
“He’s far from his own the crather—the 
pretty young boy.” 

“ Mavourneen dheelish—my sweet dar- 
ling,” is expressive of great tenderness. 

“My father, the heavens be his bed!” 
when uttered with fervency has both solem- 
nity and pathos. 

In their good wishes the Irish are most 
ingenious. ‘May every hair of your hon- 
our’s head become a mould candle to light 
you into-glory.” “May you live a hundred 
years and a day longer,” which last words 
seem to be added from a sudden impulse, to 


ready overflowing. 


principles of good or evil. 
unjust steward who wore his ears stuffed 
with wool, was said to have adopted this 
custom that he might not hear the cries of 
the widow and the orphan. 

In reply to instructions that were to prove 
|| his constancy, a peasant exclaims, “ Manim 
i| asthee hir, my soul is within you.” A mother 
thus regrets her son’s approaching mar- 


your father’s hearth and mine.” A broken- 
hearted mother exclaims, “ My soul to glory, 
but my child’s murthered !” 

In a note by Crofton Croker, in his Fairy 
Legends, he remarks, “The Irish, like the 
Tuscans, as observed by Mr. Rose in his in- 
teresting Letters from the North of Italy, are 
extremely picturesque in their language. 
Thus they constantly use the word dark as 
synonymous with blind ; and a blind beggar 
will implore you to ‘ Look down with pity on 
a poor dark man.” 

It may be observed here that the Irish, 
like the Scotch, by a very beautiful and 
tender euphemism, call idiots, innocents. A 
lady of rank in Ireland, the lady Bountiful 
of her neighbourhood, was one day asking a 


| man about a poor orphan: “Ab! my lady,” 


throw another weight into the scale, or to | 
heap another blessing into the measure al- , 


There is also a great deal of imagination | 
in the manner in which they account for | 
what they do not, or will not understand ra- | 


tionally: always referring directly to the | 
Thus a hard and | 
_ of the Italians, makes the same observation 


riage, “You’re going to break the ring about | 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


fl 


but they can see without despising it. 


_ both people. 


said he, “ the poor creature is sadly afflicted 
with zmnocence /” And another peculiarity 
in the phraseology of the Irish, is their fond- 
ness for using what Mr. Burke would term 
“ sublime adjectives,” instead of the common 
English adverbs—very, extremely, &ec. 
Thus an Irishman will say, “Its a cruel cold 
morning;” or “There’s a power of ivy | 
growing on the old church.” 

There is a peculiarity of constitution both | 
mental and bodily, observable in the Irish | 
people, for which it is difficult to account. | 
One of their most amiable characteristics is | 
the absence of satire, perhaps it would be 
more correct to say contemptuous satire ; 
for the Irish are quick to see the ridiculous, | 
Un- 
acquainted with that qualifying medium be- 
tween what amuses them, and what excites 
their passions—that medium which an Eng- 
lishman fills up with every variety and degree 
of contempt, they pass immediately from 
laughter to indignation; and thus amongst 
the least civilized classes of the Irish, the 
social meeting too often terminates in the 
deadly fray. Madame de Stael in speaking 


with regard to the absence of contemptuous 
satire from their national character; and it 
is to this amiable trait, in connection with 
great natural enthusiasm, that we may rea- 
sonably attribute the poetical constitution of 
It is impossible to imagine that 
those combined ebullitions of music and 
verse, for which Italy has been celebrated, 
and which have unquestionably given a po- 
etical tone to the character of her people ;— 
that those bursts of impassioned feeling find- 
ing at the same time a language and a 
voice, should ever have flourished under the 
auspices of John Bull; or that he should 
have sat by, aud witnessed with delight 
those exhibitions of irrelevant tropes, and 
metaphors, and splendid perorations, and 
flashes of wit, and peals of passionate elo- 
quence, for which Ifrish oratory has been 
distinguished. No; there is nothing more 
destructive to enthusiasm and poetry, indeed 
to genius in its most unlimited sense, than 
contempt. It is true, the calm judgment of 
the censor is often necessary to restrain the 
exuberance of undisciplined fancy, but he | 
who prides himself upon being able to put 


peer Ry 


THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 


91 


down witha sneer, whatever is unnecessary And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: yea, he did fly 


agination, ought to feel bound to supply, 
with something equally conducive to happi- 
ness, the void which this practice must ne- 
cessarily occasion in the highest range of 
intellectual gratification. 

If other evidence were necessary, beyond 
what is afforded by the nature of the human 
mind, to prove that poetry may not only be 
mingled with, but highly enhance all that 
we enjoy and admire, we have this evidence 
in the Bible, abounding as it does in every 
variety of poetical language which it has 
entered into the mind of man to conceive. 
A slight examination of the different mean- 
ings attached to words of common and fa- 
miliar signification, will sufficiently illustrate 
the high tone of imaginative interest flowing 
through the whole. 

The words I have selected are, hand, wing, 
foot, head, mind, heart, and soul, of which 
hand is perhaps the most unlimited in its 
application. 


in feeling, and extraneous in taste and im- 


HAND. 


His hand will be against every man, and every man’s 
hand against him.—And the children of Israel went out 
with an high hand.—The day of their calamity is at hand. 
—The Lord made all that he did to prosper in his hand. 
The hand of the Lord is sore upon us.—For he put his 
life in his hand, and slew the Philistine.—As soon as the 
kingdom was confirmed in his hand.—I will set his hand 
also in the sea, and his right Aand in the rivers.—In the 
shadow of his hand hath he hid me.—Wonld we had died 
by the hand of the Lord —The hand of the Lord is gone 
out against me.—The hand of the Lord was strong upon 
me.—If thou wilt take the left hand, then I wil] go to the 
right; or if thou depart to the right and, then I will go 
to the left.—Let not thy left hand know what thy right 
hand doeth.—I will remember the years of the right hand 
of the Most High —A wise man hears at his right hand. 
—Let my right hand forget her cunning.—Is there nota 
lie in my right hand.—If thy right hand offend thee, cut 
it off—They gave to me and Barnabas the right hand of 
fellowship. 


Here we find the word hand is not only 
used for the instrument of performing, main- 
taining, and possessing, but that it supplies 
the place of power, in all its different modi- 

fications of will, action, and suffering. 


‘ WING. 


As one gathereth eggs that are Jeft, have I gathered all 
the earth; and there was none that moved the wing.— 
Ye have seen what I _have done unto the Egyptians, and 
how I bore you on eagles’ wings, and brought you unto 
myself.—A full reward be given thee of the Lord God 
of Israel], under whose wings thou art come to trust. 


upon the wings of the wind.—Oh that I had wings like a 
dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest.—Hide 
me under the shadow of thy wings.—IfI take the wings 
of the morning, and dwell in the nttermost parts of the 
sea.—Riches make themselves wings.— Wo to the land 
shadowing with wings!—The wind hath bound her up 
in her zo/ngs.—The sun of righteousness shall arise with 
healing in his wings. f af 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 


The word wing is here used not only as 
the instrument of conveying aloft, or away; 
but as the means of sheltering and protect- 
ing; from the two different associations 
which we have with the flight of a bird, and 
the brooding of its young. 


FOOT. 


He will keep the feet of.his saints, and the wicked shall 
be silent in darkness.—le maketh my feet like hinds’ 
feet.—He that is ready to slip with his feel, is as a lamp 
despised in the thought of him that is at eaxe.—I was | 
eyes to the blind, and fee/ was J to the Jame —J¥e shall 
subdue the people under ns, and the nations under our 
Jeet.—Suffer not our fre’ to be moved.—My fret were 
almost gone.— Lift up thy feet unto the perpetual desola- 
tions.-Her feet go down to death.—How beautiful upon 
the mountains are the fve/ of him that bringeth good 
tidings.—Thou hast put al] things in subjection ander his 
Jeet.—No man lifted up his foof in all the land.—The | 
flood breaketh out from the inhabitant: even the waters 
forgotten of the fool; they are dried up, they are gone 
away from men. 


We see by these passages that foot is used 
in a very unlimited sense, as a foundation 
and a stay, as well as a means of establish- 
ing, confirming, moving, overcoming, and 
destroying. 


BEAD. 


Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thine head, 
and shalJ restore thee unto thy place.—Thou hast kept 
me to be the head of the heathen.—Thy blood shall be 
upon thine own Acad.—Though his excellency mount up 
into the heavens, aud his /ead reach the clounds.—Mine 
iniguities are gone over mine head.—-Blessings are upon 
the head of the just.—Thou shalt heap coals of fire npon 
his head.— Mine head is filled with dew.--Thou hast 
built thy high places at every head of the way.—Thy 
dream and the visions of thy heed upon thy bed.—Vor 
this cause ought the woman to have power on her head, 
becanse of the angels. 


We find head used here as it is in our or- 
dinary language, not only as the chief’ por- 
tion of any whole, and the centre from whence 
our ideas flow; but as a figure it is most fre- 
quently made to stand for the bighest part |! 
of man’s nature—that which is most capable 
of being exalted or depressed—most calcu- 
lated for receiving honour, as well as sutfer- 
ing degradation. 


Le ai gee erent eran een 


92 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. | 


MIND. 


And they put him in ward, that the mind of the Lord 
might be shown them.—Bring it again to mind, O ye 
transgressors.—Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace 
whose mind is stayed on thee.—Sitting clothed, and in 
his right mind.—The carnal mind is enmity against God. 
—Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.— 
Even their mind and conscience is defiled.—Be all of one 
mind.—It was in my mind to build an house.—To do 
good or bad of mine own mund.—I know the for ward- 
ness of your mind.—Gird up the loins of your mind.— 
Comfort the feeble-777nded.—A double minded man is un- 
stable in all his-ways. 


Here we see that in the language of scrip- 
ture, precisely the same license is used as in 
that of our poets. The word mind repre- 
sents an ideal centre from whence volitions 
flow, and relates almost exclusively to the 
understanding, the memory, and will. 


HEART. 


And God saw that every imaginatiou of the thoughts 
of man’s heart was only evil continually.—And Jacob’s 
hearl fainted, for he believed them not.—Pharaoh’s heart 
was hardened.—Lay up these my words in your heart.— 
My brethren that went up with me made the heart of 
the people melt.—For the divisions of Reuben there were 
great searchings of heart.—And it was so, that when he 
had turned his back to go from Samnel, God gave him 
anowvher heart.—David’s heart smote him.—His heart died 
within him.—And God gave Solomon wisdom and un- 
derstanding exceeding much, and largeness of heart, 
even as the sand that is on the sea shore.—His wives 
turned away his heart.—I caused the widow’s heart to 
sing for joy.—A broken and contrite heart, O God, thou 
wilt not despise.—By sorrow of heart is the spirit broken. 
—lI am pained at my very heart.—I weep for thee with 
bitterness of heart.—Out of the heart proceed evil 
thoughts. —Where your treasure is, there will your heart 
be also.—Did not our heart burn within us, while he 
talked by the way.—Love the Lord thy God with all thy 
heart. 


The difference between heart and mind is 
here apparent. Heart comprehends the un- 
derstanding and the affections, but has no- 
thing to do with either memory or will, ex- 
cept as the affections may be considered as 
the moving cause of impressions upon the 
memory, and operations upon the will; while 
mind confined to the sphere of the intellects 
has nothing to do with the affections. 


SOUL. 


And man became a living soul.—Set your soul to seek 
tne Lord.—The law of the Lord is perfect, converting 
the sou/.—He satisfieth the longing svul, and filleth the 
hungry soul with goodness.—Fear not them which kill 
the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather 
fear him which is able to destroy both sow! and body in 
hell.—He hath poured out his soul unto death.—My soul 
is weary of my life.—Unto thee, O Lord, do J lift up my 
soul.—We were willing to have imparted unto you, not 
the gospel of God only, but also our own souls, because 


ye were dear unto us.—In patience possess ye your souls, 
—He that winneth souls is wise.—Thou fool, this night 
shall thy soul be required of thee.—Take heed to thyself; 
and keep thy soul diligently, Jest thou forget the things | 
which thine eyes have seen.—Why art thon cast down, |; 
O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? ~ | 
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth 
my soul after thee, O God !—My soul shall be joyful in 
the Lord.—Save me, O God, for the waters are come in 
unto my soul.—Unless the Lord had been my help, my 
soul had almost dwelt in silence.—My soul fainteth for 
thy salvation.—My soul is even as a weaned child.—I 
shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my soul. 
—The Lord is my portion, saith my soul.—My soul doth 
magnify the Lord. 


We now find that every attribute both of 
the mind and the heart are comprehended 
in the meaning of the word soul. Not only 
is the soul capable of willing, acting, and 
suffering, but also of loving; and when we 
pursue the idea of love through all its gra- 
dations, down to simple preference, we shall 
have traversed a region comprising every 
impulse by which our nature is capable of 
being influenced. But in addition to the 
most extensive signification of mind and 
heart, soul obtains a character more digni- 
fied and profound, from being associated 
with the principle of life—with man’s moral 
responsibility—and with eternity. 

In examining these few words we are 
struck with the idea, of how much they 
would lose in beauty and interest by being 
confined to their literal and absolute signifi- 
cation; and just in the same proportion 
would our intellectual attainments and pur- 
suits be robbed of their ornament and charm, 
by being separated from the poetry of life. 


SeenngeEEI coe 


THE POETRY OF LOVE. 


On entering upon the poetry of the human 
mind, the passions naturally present them- 
selves as a proper subject of interesting dis- 
cussion ; because as poetry belongs not so 
much to the sphere of intellect, as to that of 
feeling, we must look to the passions, as to 
the living principle, which gives intensity to 
perception, and vividness to thought. All 
mankind who are gifted with common sense, 
are capable of writing verses, but all cannot 
feel, and still less can all write poetically. In 
order to do this it is necessary to feel deep- 
ly. By the exercise of intellectual | 


THE POETRY OF LOVE. 


93 


we may learn what are the component parts | and blushes, as well as of that which never 


of a flower, but this alone will never make us 
sensible of its beauty. The same power may 
collectand disseminate the truths most impor- 
tant to the well being of society, but it cannot 
enforce their reception. In short, though it 
may instruct, improve, invigorate, and sup- 
ply the mind with a perpetual fund of infor- 
mation, intellectual power alone can never 
make a poet, nor excite that love of poetry— 
that ardent desire in the soul for what it 
feeds on, which gives to the poetic mind a 
refinement, an energy, and a sense of hap- 
piness unknown to that which subsists mere- 
ly upon knowledge. Hence we may fairly 
conclude, that the man who is wholly dispas- 
sionate himself, and who has neither ob- 
served, nor studied the nature of passion in 
others, can never be a poet; any more than 
the artist who has never felt the exhilaration 
of joy, nor witnessed its effects, can repre- 
sent in painting or marble a personification 
of delight. 

To examine the passions individually 
would be a work of time and patience, or 
rather of impatience. We will therefore 
dismiss those which are malevolent or inju- 
rious to the peace of society; for though 
rage, envy, malice, jealousy, and above all 
the master passion of revenge, may supply 
the poet with images of majesty, and hor- 
ror, which give to the productions of his 
genius a character of depth and power; yet 
as those to which we are about to turn our 
attention are so much more congenial to the 
peaceful spirit of the muse, we will devote 
our time solely to the consideration of the 
poetry of love, and grief. 

First then we begin with love; a subject 
hourly trampled in the dust, and yet hourly 
rising from its degredation with fresh life, 
and fresh vigour, to claim, in spite of the 
perpetual profanation of vulgar familiarity, 
the best and warmest tribute of the poet’s 
lay. By love I do not mean that moderate 
but high-toned attachment which may be 
classed under the general head of affection 
—of this hereafter. For the present I am 


daring enough to speak in plain prose, and 
even in this enlightened day, of the love of 
May-day queens, and village swains ; of the 
love of Damon and Delias; of the love 
which speaks in the common-place of sighs 


told its tale ; of the love which Milton thought 
worthy of being described in its purest, ho- 
liest character; and of the love which lives 
and glows in the pages of every poet from 
Milton down to Byron, Burns, and Moore. 
That all who have touched the poet’s ma- 
gic pen, have at one time or other of their 
lives made love their theme, and that they 
have bestowed upon this theme their highest 
powers, is proof sufficient to establish the 
fact that love is of all the passions the most 


poetical; a fact in no way contradicted or | 


affected by the vulgar profanation to which 
this theme more than any other has been 
subjected. All human beings are not capa- 
ble of ambition, of envy, of hate, or indeed 
of any other passion; but all are capable of 
love, in a greater or less degree, and accord- 
ing to certain modifications; it follows there- 
fore as a necessary consequence, that love 
should form a favourite and familiar theme, 


with multitudes who know nothing of its | 


refinements, and high capabilities. 

The universal tendency of love to exalt 
its object, is a fact which at once gives it 
importance, dignity, and refinement. Im- 
portance because of its prevalence amongst 
mankind; dignity, because whatever raises 
the tone of moral feeling, and disposes to- 
wards kindly thoughts of our fellow-crea- 
tures, must be conducive to the good of soci- 
ety; and refinement because it enters into 
the secrets of social intercourse, and delights 
in nothing so much as communicating the 
happiness it derives from all that is most 
admirable in art and nature. If that is a 
contemptible or insignificant passion under 
whose influence more has been dared, and 
done, and suffered, than under any other ; 
then is the human mind itself contemptible, 
and the name of insignificance may very 
properly be applied to all those impulses of 
human nature which have given rise to the 
revolutions of past ages, and the most con- 


spicuous events which mark the history of 


the world. 

It seems to me that love originates in a 
mixturé of admiration and pity. Without 
some feeling of admiration, no sentient be- 
ing could first begin to love; and without 
some touch of pity, love would be deficient 


in its character of tenderness, and that irre- | 


lho 


sistible desire to serve the object, which im- 
pels to the most extraordinary acts of disin- 
terestedness and devotion. I grant that 
after love has once taken possession of the 
heart, it becomes a sort of instinct, and can 
then maintain an existence too miserable, 
and degraded, for a name, long after admi- 
! ration and even pity have become extinct. 
But in the first instance there must be some 
quality we admire to attract our attention 
and win our favour, and there must be some 
deficiency in the happiness of this object, 
which we think we can supply, or we should 
never dream of attaching ourselves to it. It 
may be asked since love sometimes fixes it- 
self upon an inferior object, degraded below 
the possession of dignity or virtue, where 
then can be the admiration? I answer, that 
in such cases the mind that loves must be 
degraded too, and consequently it is subject 
to call evil good, and may thus discover 
qualities admirable to its perverted vision, 
which a more discriminating eye would turn 
from with disgust. Again, it is still more 
reasonable to ask when love is fixed upon 
an object apparently the centre of hap- 
piness, to which prosperity in every shape 
is ministering, where then can be the pity ? 
| We all know that the appearance of happi- 
ness is deceitful, and we all suspect that 
even under the most flattering aspect, there 
is a mingled yarn in the web of life, which 
renders the experience of others, like our 
own, a mixture of joy and sorrow; but if a 
being can be found in whose happiness is no 
broken link, no chord unstrung, who has no 
false friend, no flattering enemy, no threat- 
ening of infirmity, no flaw in worldly comfort 
and security ; I would answer the question 
by asking, is human happiness of so firm 
and durable a nature that once established, 
it remains unshaken? No; the summit of 
earthly felicity is one of such perilous attain- 
ment, that the nearer we see any one ap- 
proaching it, the more we long to protect 
them from the danger to come—to stretch 
out our arms, and if we cannot prevent, at 
least to break their fall. We feel towards 
such an one, that the day will come when 
they may want a real friend, a firm support, 
a true comforter, and we hasten the bond 
that unites our fate with theirs, that we may 
be ready in the days of “trial and wo.” 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


If admiration did not form a competent 
part of our love, we should not feel so ardent 
a desire as is generally evinced, to obtain 
for the object beloved, the admiration of 
others. We long for others to behold them 
with our eyes, that they may participate in 
our feelings and do what we consider jus- 
tice to the idols of our imagination; and 
though this can seldom be the case to the 
extent of our wishes, we know that to listen 
to the well-merited praises of those we love, 
is (at least to women) the most intense en- 
joyment this world can afford. To purchase 
this gratification what anxiety we endure, 
what study we bestow, what ardent desire 
we experience, that they may commit no 
errors cognizable to the world’s eye; but 
steering an open, honourable, upright course, 
may defy the scrutiny of envious eyes, and | 
claim as their due from society at large, that 
tribute of admiration which we are ever 
ready to bestow. But the unspeakable an- 
guish with which we behold any departure 
from this honourable course of conduct, is 
perhaps the strongest proof; how intimately 
our sense of all that is admirable in the hu- 
man character is interwoven with our affec- || 
tions. J do not pretend to say, that we are 
all so influenced by right feeling, or so well } 
assured of the precise line of demarcation 
between good and evil, as to lament over 
the errors of those we love, exactly in pru- 
portion to their moral culpability. Far from 
it. But let that which ail hearts can feel— 
let the stigma of the world’s disgrace fall 
upon them—let it at the same time be vol- 
untarily incurred, and richly merited, and ye 
who tell us of the loss of friends or fortune, of 
poverty, or sickness or death, match the 
agony of this conviction if you can. No; it |; 
has neither companion nor similitude. In 
the wide range of human calamity there 
is not one that bears any proportion to this. 

It may be said of pity also, that there are 
cases in which we are scarcely aware of its 
forming any part of our love ; but is not our 
love at such times languid, spiritless, and 
inert? No sooner does sickness or misfor- 
tune assail the object of our regard, than it . 
assumes a new life, and all that was dear : 
before, becomes doubly valuable beneath the | 
pressure of affliction, or on the brink of the | 
erave. How oftem has pity brought to light 


Ne er a a ee oR a 


aetna. 


ae ee 


| a love whose existence we were unconscious 
of before; and those whom we should once 
have deemed it impossible to regard with 
tenderness, have becgme, under the shadow 
of misfortune, thé objects of our most devoted 
affection. : 

The power which love possesses of en- 
haneing our enjoyments, is of itself sufficient 
to entitle this sentiment to a high place 
amongst those that are most influential in 
their operations upon the human mind. [| 
appeal to the young, or rather to the old 
who have not forgotten their youth, whether 
| love has not at some period of their existence, 
given a life and vividness to the aspect of 
creation, a music to sound, and an intensity 
to all their capabilities of simple and natural 
delight, which, while the enchantment lasted, 
seemed to raise the pleasures of earth above 
this sublunary sphere, though in remem- 
brance it claims nothing but a_ passing 
smile, or perhaps a faint sigh of regret, that 
we have lost so much of what constitued 
the life of our early existence. We smile 
because we have lived to awake from our 
delusion—to know that the sunshine which 
then appeared to us a flood of radiance 
pouring its golden streams over hill and 
grove, and diffusing the principle of happi- 
ness through all the secret mysteries of na- 
ture, was but the ordinary light of day, lia- 
ble to be obscured by mists, and hid from 
us by the intervention of dense snd gloomy 
clouds. We smile because the brook that 
murmured at our feet with such continuous 
and unbroken melody, to our young imagi- 
nations pure, and clear, and vivid, like the se- 
cret springs of unsophisticated feeling, since 
then has wearied us with the constant mo- 
notony of its sound, seeming to tell of little 
else than\ pebbles and clear water. We 
smile, because the song of at least half the 
birds whose voices were then all music, has 
degenerated into a mere chirp; but most of 
all we smile, because that bright being 
whose brow was garnished with a glory—at 
whose feet we would have laid the accumu- 
lated treasures of the whole world had we 
possessed them—the idol whom irreligiously 
we had placed upon the high altar of the 
soul, has stepped down from that exalted 
pedestal, and passing forth into the world 
endowed only with the customary functions 


THE POETRY OF LOVE. 


of humanity, has mixed in the common ayo- 
cations of life, and become 


‘An eating, drinking, bargain-making man.” 


Or if after such a retrospection, perchance 
we sigh, it is not so much with any positive 
regret, as with a vague sense of some inde- 
finite loss—a mere illusion—a false colouring 
—a, deceitful tone—an evanescent charm 
which owed its existence to the infatuation 
of the mind, and yet we sigh; because not 
the longest period of man’s natural life, not 
the rapid and entire success of all our 
schemes, not the riches of prosperity poured 
into our lap, around our feet, and even be- 
yond the circle of our hopes, can restore 
what is lost to us, when we are driven to 
the conviction that we can love no more. It 
was an idle phantasy, we tell ourselves in 
after life, and we join in the ridicule that re- 
probates this foolish passion; but would we 
not give all that time and tears have pur- 
chased for us, to sit again in the bright sun- || 
shine, to look round upon the fields and the 
woods, to listen to the singing of the birds, 
and without the excitement of art, or the aid 
of borrowed attributes, to feel each individual 
moment sufficient in its fulness of felicity to |; 
lull the memory of the past, and soothe down 
the anxieties of the future, concentrating into 
one point of present time, all that we spend 
after years in search of, and realizing with- 
out purchase, and without sacrifice, in one 
single isolated particle of blissful experience; 
the happiness for which countless myriads 
are pining in vain. 

It is a strong proof of the poetical charac- 
ter of love, that all the contempt, and all the 
ridicule it meets with in the world, are una- 
ble to deprive it of the legitimate place which 
it holds in the popular works of our best 
authors. Caleb Williams is the only novel 
that occurs to me, in which the interest of 
the story is in no way connected with love. 
The author has supplied this deficiency, by || 
conducting the reader through his pages 
with an intensity of anxiety, scarcely equalled 
elsewhere ; but well as this story is penned, 
we arrive in the end at the unsatisfactory 
conviction, that we have been reading an 
uncongenial, hard, bad book, the whole tenor 
of which is in direct opposition to the good 
providence of God. It may be remarked, in 


a ae lag cape er SS een nasiaiaceentgren SoeeRe 


Ge RRR ma cen ER TET ae 


— re a 


i 96 ‘THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


‘| connexion with the same fact, that Sir Wal- 
| ter Scott after he had spell-bound the public 
by the easy natural flow of his first poems, 
tried his skill upon the battle of Waterloo, 
and produced one which it is difficult to 
read, though the same master hand is there. 
He has since atoned for this want of fealty 
to the tender passion, by the most delicate 
| and judicious distribution of it through the 
whole of his novels, where we find always 
enough, and (what is saying a great deal 
for the writer) never too much. At the 
same time however that love forms an es- 
sential part in our popular works of fiction, 
it seems to be inconsistent with the genius 
of the English nation, to make it the entire, 
or even the leading subject of any particular 
work. Richardson approaches the nearest 
to this extreme, but his novels are more re- 
markable in this day, for presenting minute 
descriptions of human character, of the social 
habits and customs of the times in which he 
| lived, than as dissertations upon love. Miss 
'| Porter, kind as she is in mating all her cha- 
|| racters, and marching them off the stage in 
couples, gives us battles innumerable, with 
lively exhibitions of valour, patriotism, and 
| various other passions, good and evil, among 
which her love scenes form a very small, 
and certainly a very inferior part. And Miss 
Edgeworth, “the great enchantress,” who 
manages love with more tact, and often with 
dexquisite pathos, introduces it always with 
due subserviency to that substantial, sound 
moral, which to the honour of her sex and 
the benefit of her fellow-creatures, she makes 
the chief object of her clear, well regulated, 
and comprehensive mind. 

We have no work in our language which 
bears any resemblance to the sorrows of 
Werter or to Corinne, each admirable in 
their way, and far above the praise of an 
ordinary pen. No Englishman could pos- 
sibly have written either. He could not 
have resigned himself so entirely to any 
subject of a tender and evanescent nature, 
as to have studied it metaphysically. The 
spirit of sarcasm is so predominant in the 
English constitution, that he would have 
laughed at his work before it was half com- 
pleted, and the other half would have re- 
mained unfinished, for fear of bringing upon 

|| himself the contempt of his friends, and the 


= 


gran, cba a ca eeaeeageeineeer ees! 
NEES I ETT TL NE I DE Do ELI EOE OL ED LYELL A IAI oN, 


sneers of his enemies. The loves of Black- | 
eyed Susan, Will Watch, and Roderick 
Random, are more pleasing to John Bull ; 
because such is his extneme sensitiveness on 
the score of ridicule, that as soon as the ' 
fatal smile appears, love, such as it is in these 
and similar productions, can be dismissed 
altogether as a joke, and no more need be 
said or done about it. But to be convicted 
of sentimentality—to be detected in the act 
of exhibiting or infusing, pathos, would be a 
dilemma as unprecedented, as insupportable 
to that powerful subborn genius, the grand 
aim of whose life is never to commit him- 
self; and that man is unquestionably com- 
mitted—committed beyond the power of re- 
demption, who writes a book about love. 
Still even to critics—to John Bull, who on 
the score of non-commitment, constitutes 
himself the chief of critics, love must be al- 
lowed to have the power of developing hu- 
man character beyond what is possessed by 
any other passion, sentiment, or feeling. 
There is a class of beings so numerous that 
they form a very important, and in many-re- 
spects a very useful part of society, who can 
listen to the most enchanting music, with 
ears, and thoughts, and memory alive only 
to the sound of individual notes, imprint- 
ing them separately upon the tablet of 
their minds, in order that they may be 


carried home, pricked down upon paper, 
and played upon their own pianos; or who 
on beholding the finest specimens of ancient 
painting, or sculpture, immediately—before 
they have had time to take in the whole view, 
snatch out the ready sketch-book, and with 
that energy which men exlibit in associat- 
ing themselves and their own powers with | 
all that they admire, apply the busy pencil 
to the outline, in order that they may exhibit 
to their wondering friends a pattern of the 
colouring of the ancients, of a Roman san- 
dal, or a Grecian nose. Even by this class | 

| 


of beings, the most impervious to the tender || 
passion, love must be acknowledged to be a 
Jine study, because it draws forth the capa- 
bilities of the human mind, and brings for- 
ward its leading features into a strong light. | 
The first effect which love produces upon || 
the imagination is that-of exalting or enno- | 
bling its object, and upon the principle of 
adaptation, it consequently extends a similar 


{ 


——— 


THE POETRY OF LOVE. 


97 


influence over the mind where it exists. Un- 
der favorable circumstances, and before it 
reaches the crisis of its fate, it has a natural 
tendency to smooth dows the asperities of 
the temper, to soften the manners, and to dif- 
fuse a general feeling of cheerfulness and 
good will even beyond the sphere of its im- 
mediate object. But under circumstances 
of an opposite description, love is remarkable 
for exhibiting in its train all the evil and frail- 
ty which belong to ournature. We aresel- 
dom betrayed by any other passion to throw 
{| aside entirely that veil, beyond which pride 
|| coneeals her hidden store of private faults 
| and follies. But love is stronger than pride ; 
and it is besides so absorbing in its nature, 
that we are apt to forget while devoting 
ourselves to one object, the figure we are 
exhibiting to the eyes of the world, the se- 
crets we are disclosing, and the open rev- 
elation we are making of our “heart of 
hearts.” 

* Love,” says a popular and powerful wri- 
ter, “is a very noble and exalting sentiment 
in its first germ and principle. We never 
loved without arraying the object in all the 
glories of moral as well as physical perfec- 
tion, and deriving a kind of dignity to our- 
selves from our capacity of admiring a crea- 
ture so excellent and dignified; but this 
lavish and magnificent prodigality of the 
imagination often leaves the heart a bank- 
rupt. Love in its iron age of disappointment 
‘becomes very degraded—it submits to be 
satisfied with merely external indulgences— 
a look—-a touch of the hand, though occur- 
riag by accident—a kind word, though ut- 
tered almost unconsciously, suffices for its 
humble existence. In its first state, it is like 
man before the fall, inhaling the odours of 
paradise, and enjoying the communion of 
the Deity ; in the latter, it is like the same 
being toiling amid the briar and the thistle, 
barely to maintain a squalid existence, with- 
out enjoyment, utility, or loveliness.” 

Shakespeare has done little towards giv- 
ing dignity to this passion, though he seems 
io have been intimately acquainted ‘with its 


j| son is obvious. Love is a familiar feéling, 
‘|| associating itself with mankind in their dai- 
ly walk, and entering into the ordinary and 
domestic scenes of life; it therefore speaks 


Mh ee See 


7 


in a language simple and familiar, scarcely 
admitting of poetical ornament, except in 
memory or imagination; and as the drama 
compels all persons to speak for themselves, 
almost exclusively from the impulse of the 
moment, they can only speak of love in the 
colloquial language of the day, which lan- 
guage changing with the tastes and fash- 
ions of the world, that of Shakespeare’s dra- 
matic characters, when they speak of love is 
not only offensive to modern. ears, but de- 
grading to the sentiment itself—a sentiment 
which always maintains the most elevated 
character where the proprieties of life are 
most scrupulously observed, and the stand- 
ard of moral feeling is the highest. Yet 
Shakespeare has left a striking proof that he 
could reverence this feeling, in the following 
beautiful stanza. 


“Let me not to the marriage of true minds, 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
That alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove. 
Oh! no! it is an ever fixed mark, 
That looks on tempest and is never shaken : 
It is the star of every wandering bark, 
Whose worth’s unknown although its height be taken. 
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle’s compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.” 


It would be wholly at variance with na- 
ture, were the poet to make his characters 
speak in tropes and metaphors, with classi- 
cal allusions, and rounded periods,..of the 
passion whose powerful influence was then 
upon them. No man ever yet could speak 
or write poetically, for any length of time, of 
the love he was then experiencing. Thusit 
is only by occasional touches of feeling that 
burst upon us in all their genuine intensity, 
that the depth of the sentiment is discovered. 
Our language may be forcible and affecting, 
but it is impossible that it should be elabo- 

‘rate when weare feeling acutely ; and there 
is a certain identity with self; an exclusive- 
ness, giving something like sacredness to the 
sensations which belong to love, that ren- 
ders an open, full, unsparing exposure of it 
repulsive, even in the pages of the poet. It 


influence upon the human mind. The rea- | is this sacredness, which, above all other 


things constitutes the poetry of love. Those 
who live under its influence possess, so 
long as that influence lasts, a secret trea- 
sure, and often betray by their inadvertent 


938 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


expressions, and by a speaking smile, that 
‘they believe themselves to be enjoying an 
inward source of satisfaction, which their 
{| companions know not of. Imagination, in- 
vests with a peculiar importance and a mys- 
terious charm, all the minutie of life, as it is 
connected with one individual being, and the 
mind broods over its own private and par- 
| ticular hoard of joy, with a constant watch- 
fulness and jealousy lest the world, that fell 
spoiler, should break in and pollute, even if 
it had no inclination or ability to steal. 
Under the influence of love, we are sus- 
picious even of ourselves. We shrink from 
making it the common topic of conversation. 
It is a feeling which admits of no participa- 
tion. We would not, if we could, make 
converts, any farther than our admiration 
extends; and as there is no sympathy to be 
obtained by communication, no one at all 
acquainted with the world, or with the prin- 
ciples of human nature, would ever tell their 
love, were it not for the power which this 
passion possesses to overthrow the rational 
faculties, to blind perception, and to silence 
experience, holding the wise man captive in 


drawing him on from one folly to another, 
until at last he awakes from his dream, and 
feels, like the unfortunate bellows-mender, 
that he is wearing an ass’s head. No soon- 
er is the spell dissolved, than he turns upon 
his fellow-creatures the weapons of ridicule, 
dipped in the venom of his wounded pride ; 
he laughs the more in order that he may ap- 
pear to make light of his recent bonds, and 
thus revenges himself for his own mortifica- 
tion. 

Those who are wise enough to profit by 
the experience of others, learn to keep si- 
lence on this theme, but it pervades their 
thoughts and feelings not the less. It is 
present with them in the morning when they 
awake, and in the evening when they seek 
repose. It is cradled in the bosom of the 
scented rose, and rocked upon the crested 
waves of the sea. It speaks to them in the 
lulling wind. and gushes forth in the foun- 
tain of the desert. It is clothed in the gold- 
en majesty of the noonday sun, and shrouded 
in the silver radiance of the moon. It is the 
soul of their world, the life of their sweet and 

chosen thoughts, the centre of their exis- 


IL 


SS 


the leading strings of second childhood, and’ 


a 


tence, which gathers in all their wandering 
hopes and desires. Here they fix them ‘to 
one point, and make that the altar upon 
which all the faculties of the soul pour out 
their perpetual incense. 

Burns, who has written of love more fre- 
quently, yet with more simplicity of sweet- 
ness than any other of our poets, strikingly 
illustrates the potency of this sentiment 
in associating itself with our accustomed 
amusements and avocations. There was 
no object in nature which he did not find it 
possible to compare or contrast with the 
reigning queen of his affections; but the 
memory of one, above all others, he has im- 
mortalized in strains as touching and poet- 
ical, as ever flowed from a faithful recollec- 
tion, a warm imagination, and a too fond 
heart. 

The lines beginning 


“Thou lingering star with less’ning ray,” 


are, or ought to be, too familiar to every 
reader of taste and sensibility to need repeti- 
tion here, as well as those to Highland Ma- 
ry, equally expressive of ardent and poetical 
feeling, a feeling which all the rough usages 
of the world were unable to deprive of its 
tenderness, and which all the allurements of 
vice and folly were unable to divest of its 
purity. In glancing over the pages of this 
genuine bard of nature, we are every mo- 
ment struck with the particular pathos with 
which he speaks of love. Read as an in- 
stance the following lines, so unlike anything 
that we meet with in the productions of 
the present day. 


“ Had we never lov’d sae blindly, 
Had we never lov’d sae kindly, 
Never met or never parted, 

We had ne’er been broken-hearted. 


A SN NE 


“ Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare the weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 


“ Ae fond kiss. and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas for ever! i 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.” 


Or,— 


' “ Not the bee upon the blossom, 
In the pride o’ sunny noon; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 
All beneath the summer moon! 


ey 


a ee ye snr fesse een oor eo ep nner renee ase a eneneeneeeees 


THE POETRY OF LOVE. 


Not the poet, in the moment 
Fancy lightens on his e’e, 

Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 
That thy presence gies to me.” 


Or again,— 


“ Altho’ thou maun never be mine, 
Altho’? even hope is denied ; 
’Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
Than aught in the world beside.” 


And where in the records of feeling can 
we find a more aflectionate description of 
love and poverty contending against each 
other, than in the following song; the first 
and last stanza of which I shall quote for 
the benefit of those who are too wise to 
think of love, who are too happy to have 
ever been compelled to take poverty into 
their calculations, and who are consequently 
unacquainted with the fact that both together 
struggling for mastery over the wishes and. 
the will, create’a warfare as fearful and 
desolating as any which the human heart 
is capable of enduring. 


“O Poortith cauld, and restless love, 
Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
Yet Poortith a’ I could forgive 
An ’twere na for my Jeanie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life’s dearest band untwining ? 
O why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune’s shining ? 
= = = * 
“How blest the humble cotter’s fate ! 
He woos his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life’s dearest bands untwining ? 
_ Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune’s shining ?”? 


Moore has done much, perhaps more than 
any other man was capable of doing, to ren- 
der this hackneyed theme agreeable to mod- 
ern tastes, by arraying the idol whose divin- 
ity the public had begun to question, in every 
kind of drapery, graceful and gorgeous, and 
placing if in every possible variety of light 
and shadow. Yetthroughout the many ele- 
gant lines which he has devoted to this sub- 
ject, there are none which occur to my re- 
collection more poetically simple and touch- 
ing than these. 


“ A boat sent forth to sail alone 
At midnight on the moonless sea, 


A harp whose master chord is gone, 
A wounded bird that has but one 
Unbroken wing to soar upon, ) 
Are like what I am without thee.” . 


In the pages of Shelley we find more fresh- 
ness, and sometimes more pathos. There 
is a vividness in his thoughts, and in the 
character of his mind, which we may well 
believe to have proved too keen and restless 
for the mortal frame in which his delicate, 


sensitive, and ethereal spirit was inclosed—. 


too refined for the common purposes of life, 
too brilliant for reason, and too dazzling for 


religion, and too exquisite for repose. The 


following lines have great poetical beauty. - 


“Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 

Or the death they bear, 

The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove 
With the wings of care; 

In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 
Shall mine cling to thee, 

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
It may bring to thee.” 


And the. following fragment, addressed to 
love itself, with the exception of the first line, 
which is in extremely bad taste, is perhaps 


without its equal in poetry of this descrip- i 


tion. 


“Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, 
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, 


“ Catch thee and feed from their o’erflowing bowls 
Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew ;— 
Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls 


‘‘ Investest it; and when the heavens are blue 
Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair 
The shadows of thy moving wings imbue 


“Tts deserts, and its mountains, till they wear 
Beauty like some bright robe ;—thou ever soarest 
Among the towers of men, and as soft air 


“In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, 
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, 
Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest 


‘That which from thee they should implore :—the weak 
Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts 
The strong have broken—-yet where shall any seek 


‘¢ A garment whom thou clothest not?’ 


From love, as a passion, it is truly delight- 
ful to turn to the consideration of love in its 
more social and domestic character; and 
here again we find the same poet offering to 
his wife the noblest tribute of affection, in 
language as tender as it is elevated and 
pure. 


100 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


ghd ps ic hacen sca np ct EDEL EAA ELAS SE ea at ete oe ne RA a ne eens 


“So now, my summer task is ended, Mary, | 
And I return to thee, mine own heart’s home; . 
As to Fis queen some victor knight of faery, 
Earning bright spoils for his enchanted dome ; 
Nor thou disdain that ere my faine become 
A star among the stars of mortal might, 

If it indeed may change its natal gloom, 
Its doubtful promise, thus I would unite 
With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light. 


“ The toil which stole from thee so many an hour 
Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet! 
No longer where the woods to frame a bower 
With interlaced branches mix and meet, 
Or where with sound like many voices sweet 
Waterfalls leap among wild islands green 
Which formed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen; 
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.” 


It is worthy of remark, that these lines 
form the introduction to a work in which 
the poet concentrated all the powers of his 
genius. The merits of this work have no- 
thing to do with the fact, that it was the 
richest offering he had to lay upon the shrine 
of affection, and that that offering was dedi- 
cated to his wife. 

The late amiable Bishop of Calcutta, a 
less exceptionable poet, and a less eccentric 
genius, has left us a beautiful and affecting 
tribute to affection, under the same pure and 
sacred form; and the woman who could in- 
spire these lines ought to have been satisfied 
for the rest of her life, never to receive the 
incense of less hallowed praise. 


“Tf thou wert by my side, my love! 
How fast would evening fail 
In green Bengala’s palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 


“If thou, my love! wert by my side, 
My babies at my knee, 
How gaily would our pinnace glide 
O’er Gunga’s mimic sea! 


“T miss thee at the dawning ray 
When on our deck reclined, 
In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 


J miss thee when by Gunga’s stream 
My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the moon’s pale beam 
I miss thee from my side. 


“T spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye, 

Thy meek attentive ear. 


But when of morn and eve, the star 
Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 
Thy prayers ascend for me. 


Then on! then on! where duty leads, 
My course be onward still, 

O’er broad Hindostan’s sultry meads, 
O’er bleak Almorah’s hill. 


“ That course, nor Delhi’s kingly gates, 
Nor wild Malvah detain, 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits a 
On yonder western main! 


Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
Across the dark bine sea, 

But ne’er were hearts so light and gay, 
As then shall meet in thee!”’ 


If the language of a pure and dignified at- 
tachment, proved by long trial, refined by 
suffering, clothed in humility, and wholly di- 
vested of weakness or selfishness, was ever 
wrung out by the power of affliction from the 
inmost recesses of an elevated and virtuous 
mind, it is in the words of Mrs. Hutchinson, 
where she speaks of the love of her lamented 
husband. 


“There is only this to be recorded, that never was |! 
there a passion more ardent and lesse idolatrous; he | 
loved her better than his life, with inexpressible tender- 
nesse and kindnesse, had a most high obliging esteeme 
of her, yet still considered honour, religion, and duty 
above her, nor ever suffered the intrusion of such a do- 
tage as should blind him from marking her imperfec- 
tions: these he looked upon with an indulgent eie, which 
did not abate his Jove and esteeme of her, while it aug- 


mented his care to blot out all those spotts which might }} 


make her appeare lesse worthy of that respect he payed i 
her; and thus indeed he soon made her more equal] to 
him than he found her; for she was a very faithful mir- 
ror, reflecting truly, though but dimly, his own glories 
upon him, so long as he was present; but she that was 
nothing before his inspection gave her a faire figure, 
when he. was removed, was only filled with a darke 
mist, and never could again take in any delightful object, 
nor return any shining representation. The greatest 
excellencie she had was the power of apprehending, and 
the virtue of loving his: soe as his shadow she waited 
on him every where, till he was taken into that region 
of light, which admitts of none, and then she vanished 
into nothing. ’I'was not her face that he loved, her 
honour and her virtue were his mistresses, and these 
(dike Pigmalion’s) images of his own making, for he 
polished and gave form to what he found with all the 
roughnesse of the quarrie about it; but meeting with a 
compliante subject for his own wise government, he 
found as much satisfaction as he gave, and never had oc- | 
casion to number his marriage among his infelicities.” 


This beautiful illustration of love combines 
all that is essential to the most ardent, as 
well as the most ennobling sentiment, and 
wants nothing but metre to entitle it to a 
high place in the scale of poetical merit. 

There remains one important observation 
to be made on the subject of love, that it 
marks the progress of national civilization, 
and the improvement or the deterioration of 
public morals. Love, above all other pas- 
sions, is capable of producing the greatest 
happiness, or the greatest misery; of being 
the most refined, or the most degraded. It 


\" 
eee 


SR = 


——— 


may be associated with the highest virtue, 
‘or made the companion of the lowest vice. 
' Where a nation or a community is the most 
ilicentious, love is the least respected. Where 
deference i is paid to moral laws, and religious 
duties, love is regarded as the bond of do- 
mestic union, the charm which diffuses a 
secret, but holy influence over our domestic 
enjoyments. In patriarchal times, when 
men were dispersed over the face of the 
earth in separate families or tribes, love 
dwelt among them like a patient handmaid, 
ministering to their private comfort, but 
wholly uninfluential in directing their im- 
portant movements. In the days of chivalry, 
when men, following the standard of false 
glory, maintained their possessions by force 
of arms, sacrificed ease, honesty, or life, to 
the laws of honour, and the adventures of 
knight-errantry, love was worshipped as 
a goddess, whose inspiration endowed 
her votaries with superhuman power, and 
whose protection was a shield of adamant. 
And thus through the different changes of 
national character and customs, love adopts 
itself to all, luxuriating in the indulgence of 
artificial life, or sharing the drudgery of cor- 
poreal toil. 

Even in individuals, it is not going too far 
to say, that low notions of the nature and 
attributes of love, bespeak a vitiated mind, 
and show, like the “ trail of the serpent,” in 
the garden of Eden, that the principle of 
evil has been there. ‘There is in its elevated 
nature, a character of constancy, truth, and 
dignity, which constitutes the essence of' its 
being, and no pure eye can behold it robbed 
of these, without sorrow and indignation. 

It is this faculty of adaptation to all circum- 
stances and states of being, which renders 
love so entirely subservient to the purposes 
of the poet; because it takes the tone of the 
times, as well as that of individual charac- 
ter, and participating in good or evil, calls 
forth these opposing principles in all their 
power. 

' Besides the love here spoken of, poetry 
abounds in descriptions of that which assumes 
the sober garb of friendship, and which is 
perhaps of all others the most substantial 
support to the human mind, through the 
difficulties and temptations necessarily en- 
countered in the journey of life. A friend 


| THE POETRY OF LOVE. “* 


well chosen is the greatest treasure we can 
possess. We have in such a friend the ad- 
dition of another mind, whose strength sup- 
plies our weakness, and whose virtues render 
us ambitious of the same. We see frequent 
instances that men alone in the world—un- 
known, and unvalued, will commit errors, we 


might say vices, from which the well-timed 


warning of a friend would have restrained 
them, and stain their character with follies, 


for oehietl if'a friend had blushed, they oo. 
All tite oe 


would ees been ashamed. 
ing associations which onhance our. 
sures, or console us under affliction, » ‘are 
epntead in the name of friend. When the 
stroke of adversity falls upon us, the sympa- 


thy of a true friend takes away half its | 


heaviness. When the world misunderstands 
our meaning, and attributes bad motives to 
what are only ill-judged actions, we think 
(with what satisfaction those who have ex- 
perienced the feeling alone can tell) that 
there is one who knows us better. When 
good fortune comes unexpectedly upon us, 
ina tide too sudden and too full for enjoy- 
ment, we hasten to our friend who shares the 
overplus and leaves us happy. When 
doubttully we tread the dangerous path of 
life, misdirected by our passions, and bewil- 
dered by our fears, we look for the hand of 
friendship to point out the safe footing, from 
whence we shall bless our guide. When 
wounded, slighted, and cast back into the 


distance, by those whose fickle favor we had | 


sought to win, we exclaim in the midst of 
our disappointments, “ There is one who loves 
me still!’ And when wearied with the 
warfare of the world, and “sick of its harsh 
sounds, and sights,” we return to the com- 
munion of friendship, as we rest after a labo- 
rious journey, in a safe sweet garden of re- 
freshment and peace. There is unquestion- 
ably much to be done in the way of cultiva- 
ting this garden, and maintaining our right 
to possess it; but it repays us for the price, 
and when we have exercised forbearance, 
and interchanged kind offices, and spoken, 
and borne to hear, the truth, and been faith- 
ful, and gentle, and sincere, we find a recom- 
pense in our own bosoms, as well as in the 
affections of our friend. 

There are yet other modifications of love 
such as that which constitutes the chain of 


102 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


domestic union—the love of brothers and 
sisters; and lastly, and most to be revered 
as the foundation of family concord and s0- 
cial happiness, we might almost say of 
moral feeling, the love which subsists be- 
tween parents and children, uniting on one 
hand the tenderest impressions we have re- 
ceived, with the first lessons we have learn- 
ed; on the other, the warmest affection, with 
the weightiest responsibility. The weakness 
and the waywardness of a child watched 
over by parental love, directed by parental 
care, and reclaimed by parental authority, 
are so frequently alluded to in the Scrip- 
tures, when describing the condition of man 
in reference to his Maker, and in themselves 
harmonize so entirely with that relation, that 
we use the name of “ Heavenly Father,” not 
only in obedience to scriptural authority, but 
because we comprehend in these holy words, 
the highest object of our love, our gratitude, 
and our veneration. 

We cannot better conclude this chapter 
than with the following appropriate lines by 
Southey. 


‘They sin who tell us love can die. 
With life all other passions fly, 
All others are but vanity. 
In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor avarice in the depths of hell. 
Earthly these passions, as of earth, 
They perish where they have their birth. 
But love is indestructible ; 
Its holy flame for ever burneth, 
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
At times deceived, at times oppressed, 
It here is tried and purified, 
And hath in heaven its perfect rest; 
It soweth here with toil and care, 
But the harvest time of love is there. 
Oh! when a mother meets on high 
The babes she lost in infancy, 
Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 
The day of wo, the anxious night, 
From al] her sorrows, all her tears, 
An over-payment of delight!” 


—__—__— 
THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 


Tue poetry of grief is exhibited under so 
great a variety of forms, all capable of so 
wide a difference in character and degree, 
that it will be necessary to speak of the sen- 
timent of grief, first, under that mild and 
softened aspect which assumes the name of 


-venly beatitude fail to interest our feelings. 


sadness or melancholy, and then as. a. 


gloomy passion, absorbing every faculty of | 


the soul. es) 


Of all the distinctive characters assumed — 
by grief, from simple sadness to wild despair, - 
melancholy is the most poetical, because | 
while it operates as a stimulant to the im- 
agination, its influence is so gentle as to 
leave all the other intellectual powers at full 
liberty to exercise their particular functions. 
Burton speaks of melancholy as engender- 
ing strange conceits—as quickening the per- 
ceptions, and expanding the faculties of the 
mind; and Lord Byron, scarcely less inti- 
mate than this quaint old writer with the 
different mental maladies to which our na- 
ture is liable, describes the “ glance of mel- 
ancholy” as “a fearful gift.” 


‘What is it but the telescope of truth 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ?”’ 


When melancholy takes possession of the |} 
soul, we lose as it were the perspective of || 
our mental vision. We forget the relative 
proportions of things, and mistaking the 
small for the great, or the distant for the 
near, magnify their importance, examine 
their particular parts, and fill our imagina- 
tions with their nature and essence. This 
is in fact “making the cold reality too real ;” 
for though there is much of truth in the vivid 
perceptions ef melancholy, it is truth mis- |} 
placed; truth with which the wise man has 
little to do, but which ministers powerfully to 
the wretchedness of the “ mind diseased.” 

Being in our nature as liable to pain as we 
are susceptible of pleasure; and by the |} 
neglect of our privileges, and abuse of our 
faculties, subjected to the experience of even 
greater suffering than enjoyment; it neces- 
sarily follows, that those views of the condi- 
tion of man which are tinctured with the 
sombre hues of melancholy, should be re- |} 
garded as the most natural as well as the 
most interesting. There is little poetry in 
mirth, or even in perfect happiness, except 
as it is contrasted with misery; and thus all 
attempts to describe the perfection of hea- 


The joys of heaven are, according to the 
writers who have ventured upon these de- 


THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 


103 


scriptions, chiefly made up of luxuries which 
in this world money alone can purchase, and 
money is connected in our ideas with toil 
and strife, with envy, and jealousy, and 
never-ending vexation; or they consist of 
fountains always pure, flowers that never 
fade, and skies which no cloud has ever ob- 
scured—things which we find it difficult to 
conceive: or of perpetual praises sung by-an 
innumerable host of saints—an employment 
which we are not yet able to separate from 
ideas of monotony and weariness. Far 
more touching and more descriptive of that 
state to wliich the experienced soul learns to 
aspire as to its greatest bliss, are those de- 
scriptions and allusions adounding in the 
Holy Scriptures, and particularly in the 
Book of Revelations, where a great multi- 
tude which n® man could number, are seen 
standing around the throne arrayed in 
white robes, and with palms in their hands: 
and when the question is asked, who are 
these, and whence came they? it is answer- 
ed, “these are they which came out of great 
tribulation—they shall hunger no more, 
neither thirst any more; neither shall the 
sun light on them, nor any heat. For the 
Lamb which is in the midst of the throne 
shall feed them, and shall lead them unto 
living fountains of waters: and God shall 
wipe away all tears from theireyes.” Here 
the allusion to the sufferings and wants of 
our moral nature is continued throughout, 
forming that natural and necessary contrast 
with periect happiness, which is the very 
essence of poetry. Such expressions as 
these come home to the heart that has known 
tribulation, and therefore can conceive the 
blessednegs of eternal repose—which has 
known the anguish of morta! sorrow, and 
therefore, can appreciate the healing of the 
heavenly Comforter. 

Kiverything that deeply interests our feel- 
ings has some connexion with our own con- 
dition, or some accordance with our own 
tastes. All who experience a healthy state 
of mind have a keen relish for happiness ; 
but all are not so free from envy or selfish- 
ness as fully to enjoy the happiness of 
others; and that which falls to our own 
share is so absorbing in its nature, that we 


ence lasts; and when it is over, it can only 
be alluded to with a certain degree of sad- 
nessandregret. Ithas been justly observed, 
that it requires a more amiable temper of 
mind to laugh with those who laugh, than 
to weep with those who weep; and expe- 
rience must have taught all who have made 
the experiment that it is less difficult to ex- 
cite interest by detailing our sorrows, than 
our joys. Our friends weep with us, but for 
themselves ; and perhaps at the bottom of 
their hearts are not grieved to find that they 
do not suffer alone. But when we fly to 
them, full of our own individual hopes and 
joys, they often unconsciously throw some 
damp upon our ecstatic emotions, or coldly 
turn away, deeming us selfish, and incon- 
siderate to have wholly forgotten their sit- 
uation in the enjoyment of our own. 

Lord Byron, the most melancholy of all 
our poets found a home in every heart. 
The love-lorn maiden fed upon his pages, 
well pleased to read expressions which des- 
cribed a passion hopeless and irremediable 
as her own; the disappointed and the disso- 
lute discovered there the language of a 
sympathy, which they sought in vain of the 
giddy world around them; but above all. 
the misanthrope curled his contemptous 
lip, and gloried in having found a high and 
titled bard who scorned mankind as he did. 
It would be dificult to point out the produc- 
tions of any light and joyous poet, which 
have been equally popular and equally pen- 
etrating to the soul of the reader. Some 
there are which have been great favourites 
with the public ; but such for the most part 
have been recommended by the force of 
their satire, and the poignancy of their jests, 
rather than for the pure stream of rational 
happiness flowing through their strains. 

It is scarcely necessary to repeat, that 
poetry, in order to meet with a welcome in 


the world, must address itself to the feelings: 


of mankind as they are, not as they should 
be. It may be, and unquestionably has 
been, the means of raising in the soul a high 
tone of moral feeling, of purifying what is 
gross, and subduing what is harsh; but 
this can only be effected by establishing a 
chain of connexion between our low wants 


feel little inclination to pour it forth in| and wishes, and that which is high, and 


poetical descriptions, at least while its influ- | pure, and holy. Happiness therefore—hap- 


| 


OUST re a Sy A SN oT SE EET IS 
pee ee | eR | cn PR a SR A 


il relent ett pda pee vara eens usu open crvos-octio mares 
a ae Oe ee ee teen eer 


¢ 


104 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


eu 


piness without alloy, can never be a 
suitable theme for the muse until we enter 
upon a state of existence where it shall more 
frequently be our experience. But melan- 
choly, towards which all our feelings have 
some tendency, either immediate or remote, 
will add a charm to the language of poetry 
so long as it is understood and felt by all. 
Descriptions of life without its cares and 
sorrows, would appear to us little less wea- 
risome and unnatural than landscapes with- 
out shadow; but those which are varied by 
the sombre colouring borrowed by experi- 
ence from the hand of grief, exhibit the 
principles of harmony, and the essential 
characteristics of truth. 
- It has been wisely ordered by the Author 
of our being, that we should be stimulated to 
action by certain wishes and wants arising 
within ourselves. Had man, constituted as 
he now is, been placed in a situation of per- 
fect enjoyment, it must necessarily have been 
one of supineness and sloth, in which his 
mental powers would have experienced no 
exercise, and consequently no improvement. 
Thus when we look with regret upon the 
daily wants of mankind, and feel disposed to 
regard them as a defect in his nature, or an 
error in his morals, we do not reflect that 
they are parts of a powerful machine, so 
constructed and designed as to awaken and 
stimulate man’s highest capabilities, yet so 
liable to derangement, misapplication, and 
abuse, as to be frequently converted by his 
ignorance, or want of care, into the engine 
of his own destruction. It was the want of 
some medium of communication which first 
led to the use of certain sounds as signs 
of our ideas, and it was the same want 
which produced such an arangement of these 
sounds as to constitute a copious language ; 
it was the want of some sweet influence to 
soothe the asperities of pain, and labour, and 
fatigue, which prompted the cultivation of 
music; it was the want of some visible and 
substantial personification of their own ideas 
of beauty and grandeur, which operated upon 
| the genius of the first artists, and produced 
those massive but sublime attempts at sculp- 
ture which arose among the Egyptians, 
and were afterwards improved upon by the 
more refined inhabitants of ancient Greece ; 
and it was the want of a higher tone of lan- 


a 


guage, suited to the most elevated concep- 
tions of the human mind, which first diffused 
the refreshing stream of poetry over the 
world, gave the charm of melody to the 
hymns of Israel’s minstrel king, inspired the 
father of ancient verse with those heroic 
strains which still delight the world, founda 
language anda voice for the impassioned soul 
of Sappho, fired the genius of Euripides, and 
which still continues, though often unknown 
and unacknowledged, to tune to harmony the 
poet’s secret thoughts, operating upon the 
springs of sympathy and love, like the airs |: 
that touch unseen the chords of the A#olian 
harp. 

But above all, it is under the influence of 
sorrow that this want is felt. Joy is suffi 
cient of itself; the soul receives it, and is 
satisfied. But sorrow is burdensome, and 
the soul would gladly throw it off; and be- 
cause it cannot give what no one is willing 
to receive, would cast it upon the winds, | 
or diffuse it through crention’s space. The 
mind that is under the influence of melan- 
choly, knows no rest. Itis wearied with an 
incessant craving for something beyond it- 
self. It seeks for sympathy, but never finds 
enough. Itis dissatisfied with present things, 
and because the beings around it are too 
gross or too familiar to offer that refined 
communion for which it ever pines, it pours 
forth in poetic strains the transcript of its 
own sorrows, trusting that the world con- 
tains other sufferers at least half as wretched 
as itself, who will read, with a pity too dis- 
tant to offend, descriptions of a fate more 
lamentable than their own. 

There needs no greater proof that melan- 
choly is poetical, than the effect it produces 
upon the imagination, converting everything 
into its own bitter food. Under the influ- 
ence of melancholy, the voice of friendship 
often sounds reproachful and always unfeel- 
ing when it speaks the truth; the looks of 
gladness worn by others, are proofs of their |' 
want of consideration for ourselves; acts of || 
kindness are instances of pity, and pity, un- | 
der such circumstances, always appears ac- 
companied with contempt. Love is apt to | 
attack those who are victims of melancholy, | 
but it is always in some forbidden shape; |! 


and religion, which is, or ought to be, the 


sovereign balm for all mental aan 


a ER te ST OD 
>- 
‘ 


a ee a ee Ee 
a ee ee ee ee ene Sanna aS aa 


rte re eens ees eee. 
7 = 


1 


ne ee 


THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 


105 


pears to them like a sacred inclosure drawn 
around a chosen few, from which they are 
eternally shut out. If they read the Bi- 
ble, they tura to the lamentations of Jer- 


-emiah, Ecclesiastes, or the Book of Job ; 
and seated on a cushion of ease, in the full 
enjoyment of health, and wealth, and luxury 


of every kind, they believe themselves to be 


-as severely tried, as miserable, and perhaps 
/as patient, as the heroic sufferer. 


If they 


go forth into the fields, the flowers either 


look wau and sickly, or mock them with their 


| gorgeous hues; the tree spread around a 


gloomy shade; the streams murmur, as eve- 
rything on earth has aright to do; the birds 
and the insects that flutter in the sunshine, 
are poor deluded victims of mortality, sport- 
ing away their short-lived joy; the clouds 
which vary the aspect of the landscape, and 
the calm blue heavens, are emblematical of : 
the “ palpable obscure” in which their own 
fate is involved; and if the sun shines forth | 
in his glory, it is to remind them that no sun 

will ever more rise to disperse the darkness 

of their souls. Instead of indulging in those 

wide and liberal views which embrace the 

perfection and beauty of the universe, they ; 
fix their attention upon objects single and 
minute, choosing out such as may most 
easily be connected with gloomy associa- | 
tions. In the gorgeous hues of the autumnal } 
foliage, the eye of melancholy can distin 


' 
t 
H 
i 


guish nothing but the faded leaves just sep- 
arated from the bough, and flickering down- 
wards on the reckless wind, with those dizzy 
and convulsive movements which are wont 
to precede an irrevocable fall; from amongst 
the cheerful songsters of the grove, it singles 
out the bird with wounded wing; it per- 
ceives the rifled nest, and knows by the scat- 
tered plumage that the spoiler has been there; 
throughout the flowery wilderness of the 
fields, or the gorgeous bloom of the cultiva- 
ted garden, it sees only the blighted blossom, 
the broken stem, or the fatal ravages of the 
canker-worm ; in the heavens, it beholds on- 
ly the setting sun, the wanj~g moon, or the 
feeble star that glitters ina world of gloom ; 
in the animal kingdom, it selects those spe- 
cies which prey upon each other, and turns 
from the sportive gambols of the lamb, to 
the kite that hovers over the feathery brood, 
or the tiger and the cat that torture ere they 


devour their victims’; in the city, it is sensi- 
bie only of poverty, disease, and accumu- 
lated crime; and in the social circle, it sees 
only the lip of scorn, the pale cheek, or the 
averted eye. Over the calendar of births, 
marriages, and deaths, the melancholy hold 
themselves peculiarly privileged to mourn, 
because, in the first instance, another sen- 
tient and responsible being is added to the 
dark catalogue of those who come into the 
world to sin and suffer; in the second, an 
additional proof is about to be exhibited be- 
fore the world of the fallacy of human hopes, 
and the disappointment which inevitably at- 
tends our pursuit of earthly happiness; and 
the third is an awful evidence of that fatal 
doom to which we are all hastening. In 
short, there is nothing natural or familiar, 
sweet or soothing, good or great, which does 
not set the gloomy and morbid imagination 
afloat upon “asea of troubles :” and it is this 
exuberance of fancy, this illimitable range 
of thought, this fertility of the mind in 
producing objects of mournful associations, 
which constitutes the poetry of melancholy. 


“T have of Jate,’ says Hamlet, ‘(but wherefore I 
know not,) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of ex- 
ercises ; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my dispo- 
sition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a 
sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, the air, 
look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majes- 
tical roof, fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no 
other thing to me, thana foul and pestilent congregation 
of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble | 
in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and mov- 
ing, how express, and admirable! in action, how like an 
angel! in apprehension, how likea god! The beauty of 
the world, the paragon of animals! and yet to me, what 
is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me—nor 
woman neither.” 


We now come to the consideration of grief 
as a passion, under which character there is 
one peculiarity to be remarked, tending pow- 
erfully to invest it with the poetical charm it 
unquestionably possesses—it is the peculiar 
force and vividness of some of our percep- 
tions while the mind is under the immediate 
influence of grief. It is true we cannot 
reason, nor calculate, nor detect the weak- 
ness of sophistry, because the mind in this 
state is incapable of action. The only fa- 
culty awakened in it, is that of receiving im- 
pressions ; a power considerably heightened ; 
and increased by the total suspension of its 
active operations, But it is to trifles alone | 


| 
| 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


that this power is applied—to things of no 
importance, and such as hold no relative 
connexion with the cause of grief. Thus 
the criminal at the bar, though wholly in- 
capacitated for taking into consideration the 
poste of the laws by which he is tried, 
looks round upon the judge, the witnesses, 
| and the whole court; and with an acuteness 
|| and vividness of perception which seem 
| actually to be the means of forcing every 
unwelcome object upon his sight, he beholds 
the breathless and expectant multitude 
around him, from amongst whom he is able 
to distinguish, and single out particular faces, 
which, if he is happy enough to escape the 
dreaded dcom, will remain impressed upon 
| his memory till his latest day. The mes- 
senger who brings us evil tidings, is, for any 
thought or interest that we bestow upon him 
individually, a mere intelligence, a voice, a 
breath of air; and yet we find afterwards 
that we have involuntary noted down in 
|| characters never to be obliterated, his coun- 
|| tenance, his dress, his manner, and the tones 
in which his errand was delivered. We 
waich by the bedside of the dying, our very 
souls absorbed by the near prospect of that 
fearful dissolution which is about to deprive 
| us of a child, a parent, a friend or a brother, 
unconscious that our thoughts have wander- 
ed for one moment from what was most im- 
| portant or impressive in that awful scene ; 
yet in after life, even when the heavy wheels 
of time have rolled over us, laden with other 
accidents and other griefs, we are able to 
reeall, with a distinctness almost incredible 
to those who have never known it, the par- 
ticular aspect of that sick chamber—the fold- 
ed curtains—the pillow without rest—the 
wild delirious wanderings—the countenance 
of the nurse—the voice of the physician— 
and all the other minutie of that mournful 
scene. 

It is with the tide of feeling as with a 
swollen river. ‘The violent and overwhelm- 
ing force of the torrent bears along with it 
innumerable fragments from the desolated 
shore. \Yhnile the stream rushes on, swollen 

E tumultuous, these fragments are scarcely 


Hy?) 


j 


distinguishable amongst the whirlpools, and 
rapids, and roaring falls; but when it sub- 
sides and again glides calmly within its nat- 


afford clear and palpable evidence of the 
tremendous strength and violence of the: 
overwhelming flood. 

Lord Byron has described with his wonted 
power and pathos this capability of the 
mind, when under the influence of grief, in 
that most affecting (I might almost say 
most beautiful) of his poems “'The Dream.” 
In the melancholy scene so forcibly exhibi- 
ting the deep but silent anguish of plighting 
the hand without the heart, how naturally 
do ithe thoughts of the gloomy being he has 
chosen to represent, rush back to the season 
of his first—his only love, and settle upon 
the last agonizing moment of separation, 
which life has now no power to equal by any 
future suffering. A minor poet, or a less 
experienced reasoner, would have centred all 
the recollections of the heart-stricken bride- 
groom in the person of the lady herself; but 
Lord Byron, who could at his own pleasure 
make use of expressions as delicate as poeti- 
cal—as poetical as true, colouring the whole 
scene with those ethereal tints which belong 
to the hightest genius, merely alludes to the 
sacred object of such deep, and fervent, and 
forbiding thoughts as a “destiny ;” while he 
gives us the minor parts of the picture, clear, 
and distinct as they would be in the me- 
mory of one who could feel and suffer like 
himself. 

“ He could see 

Not that which was, but that which should have been 
Jut the remembered chambers and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,— 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 


And thrust themselves between him and the light. 
What business had they there at such an hour?” 


We might add to what has already been 
said of grief, the pleasure which it is sup- 
posed to afford in recollection; a subject 
much sung and celebrated by the poets, but 
one to which I confess myself too ignorant, 
or too obtuse to be able to do justice. Still 
we all know there are those who can linger 
over the grave recently closed over their 
heart’s treasure, who love to revisit scenes 
of former suffering, and dwell in lengthened 
detail upon the sorrows they have endured ; 
and I am inclined to believe that such are 
the individuals best qualified to describe the 
poetry of grief; rather than those who shrink || 


ural boundaries, they rise to the surface and | from allretrospection of their own experience, | 


| 

| 

| and hurry on through life to find in the 
| future what has failed them in the past. 
We turn from this subject to the con- 
| sideration of griefunder that peculiar charac- 
| ter which appears to claim more than its 
due share of interest, and which by the 
world is called first grief. 

The first grief generally arises from disap- 
|| pointment in love, death of parents, change of 
| fortune, or neglect of friends; al! sufficient 
causes of sorrow, yet by no means so pow- 
| erful or durable in their effects, as the ac- 
cumulated cares, crosses, and _ afflictions, 
which beset us «in after life. This grief is 
comparatively without association, and there- 
| fore, though touching and pathetic in the 
| extreme, because it falls upon the young, 
| and often upon the beautiful, cannot in the 

experience of the mourner be comparassle 

to those. in which are combined the accu- 
mulated sufferings that arise from memory, 
| and anticipation—the recollection of happi- 
ness that never can return—the fear of fu- 
| ture evil yet more intolerable than the pre- 
sent. 
| The first grief is unquestionably a fertile 
‘| subject for the poet, because it supplies all 
the interest arising from strong contrast; asa 
sudden blight falling upon the luxurious vege- 
tation of a productive soil, affords more mat- 
| ter for affecting and melancholy description, 
than the leafless desert stretched out in 
| its perpetual sterility beneath a burning 
sun. 

The first grief comes to the young heart 
like the rough wind to the blossom—like the 
early frost to the full blown flower—like the 
gathering vapours to the smiling sun—like 
the dark cloud to the silver moon—like the 
storm to the summer sea—like the sudden 
influence of all those fatal accidents which 
deface the lovely and verdant aspect of na- 
ture; not like that dull monotony of constant 
care which experience proves to be far more 
intolerable, but which the poet rejects for 
its very weariness. The tears which dim 
the eye of youthful beauty are wholesome, 
natural, and refreshing, compared with those 
which wear away the waning sight. When 
youthful beauty weeps, what heart so cal- 
lous as not to be touched with pity? What 
benevolence so limited as not to extend to 
the fair sufferer the consolation of love, and 


THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 


107 


the comfort of protection? There is some- 
thing in our very nature which makes us 
yearn with peculiar tenderness over those 
who mourn for their first grief. They have 
never troubled us with their complaints be- 
fore. We have been wont to see them light 
and joyous, bounding forth upon their mor- 
tal race; but now their speed is checked, 
the wished for goal has vanished from their 
sight, the stimulus is withdrawn, and unable 
either to pause, or to retrace their rapid way, 
they begin to feel that the long dull path be- 
fore them must be trod by manya weary step. 
We have learned this truth ourselves, we 
know that all who live must learn it, and 
yet to spare those who are untutored in life’s 
harsh discipline, théugh but for another 
year—a day—an hour of innocent enjoy- 
ment, we would almost be willing to bear a 
fresh stroke of the axe to which we have 
already become accustomed—the loss of 
another branch—the blight of another bough. 
It is this tenderness, felt and acknow- 
ledged by all, which gives the charm of 
ideal loveliness to the tears of the young 
mourner, which heightens the interests of 
those afflictions that are but a faint type of 
what life has yet in store, and which in fact 
constitutes the poetry of the first grief: 
Another and perhaps the most legitimate 
cause of grief is death; a calamity common to 
all, but not felt the less for being alike incident 
to the young, and the old ; the good, and the 
evil; the rich, and the poor; the noble and 
the abject. Under all other afflictions we 
may school ourselves into the belief that 


some hope of remedy or alleviation yet re- 


mains; but our reflections upon this fatal 
catastrophe are uniformly stamped with that 
word of awful and irrevocable import— 
never.* Never more shall we listen to the 
voice whose familiar tones were like the 


* Madame de Stae] has remarked upon the words no 
more, that both in sound and sense they are more de- 
scriptive of melancholy meaning than any other in our 
language If not before these, at least secoud in the 
scale, | would place the single word alune, and text to 
this never. I have heard of a poor maniac, who spent 
her life in singing or chanting this word three times re- 
peated “never—nerer—nerer,” in a mournful cadence, 
composed of six different notes of music; and it might 
afford matter of interesting speculation to the poet, to 
ask what was the nature of her grief, that could never 
die—of her loss that could never be restored 3 


108 


memory of sweet music heard in childhood 
—never shall the beaming eye, whose lan- 
guage was better understood than words, 
|| light up the secrets of our souls again— 
|| never shall the parental hand be laid upon 
our own with the earnestness of experience, 
and the warmth of love—never shall the in- 
nocent prattle of those cherub lips now 
sealed in death awaken us from our morn- 
ing slumbers—never shall the counsel of 
that long tried friend guide us again through 
the mazy paths of life. We might have 
lived and perhaps we have, without their 
actual presence ; seas might have rolled be- 
tween us; and wide countries separated 
their home and ours: but to believe in their 
existence was enough—to think that they 
looked upon the same world with ourselves 
—that the same sun rose to them and to us 
—that we gazed upon the same moon—and 
that the same wind which breathed its spirit- 
ual intelligence into our ears, might in its 
wild and lawless wanderings, have sighed 
around their distant dwelling. But above 
all, that the time might come when we 
should yet meet to recognize the same fea- 
tures, though changed by time—the same 
voice though altered in its language—and the 
'| same love, though long estranged, yet never 
totally extinguished. We must now satisfy 
ourselves that this can never be; and why ? 
not from any cause which the power and 
ingenuity of man can remedy, or the cas- 
uality of after events avert; but simply be- 
cause the vital principle which never can 
be revived, is extinct, the functions of hu- 
manity are destroyed, and the friend of our 
bosom is no more. 

It is true that religion points to the ethe- 
real essence existing in a happier sphere, 
directs the attention of the mourner to the 
undying soul, and urges on his hope to an 
eternal union ; but we have earthly feelings 
too frequently usurping the place where 
religion ought to reign; and love that is 
“strong as death,” turns away from the 
Heavenly Comforter, and will not be con- 
soled. Love holds a faithful record of the 
past, from which half the interest, and half 
the endearment must now be struck out, 
rendering the future barren, waste, and 
void. Love keeps an inventory of its secret 
treasures, where it notes down things of 


renee = Leen 


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SS.  TFTETFTE OO eeeEeETTlTlTlTlTlTllllleeeeeeeel_loooo 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


which the higher faculties of the soul take 

no cognizance—the smiles—the tones of 

mutual happiness—the glowing cheek—the 

sunny hair—the gentle hand—the well 

known step—and all that fills up and makes 

perfect the evidence of long cherished affec- |; 
tion; exchanged for what? For the mo- 

tionless' and marble stillness of death, and 
the cold, unnatural gloom of that deep sep- 

ulchre which conceals what even love itself 

has become willing to resign—for the sad 

return to the desolate. home—the silent 

chamber—the absent voice—the window 

without its light—the familiar name un- 

spoken—the relics unclaimed—the harp 

untouched—the task unfinished—the blank 

at the table unfilled up—the garden walks | 
untrodden—the flowers untended—the fa- 

vourite books closed up as with a seal—in 

short, the total rending away of that sweet 

chord, without which, the once harmonious 

strains of social intercourse are musical no 

more. . 

The effect produced upon the mind by 
the contemplation of death, is of a character 
peculiarly refined and gentle. We neces- 
sarily forgive the dead, even though they |! 
may have been our enemies: and if our |: 
friends we remember their virtues alone. | 


| 
and therefore their faults are forgotten. It | 
is true, there are associations with the bodily | 
part-of death which scarcely come under || 
the denomination of refined, but from these | 
our nature shrinks; even the common nurse 
performs her last sad office in silence, and 
delicacy shrouds in everlasting oblivion the 
mortal remains of the deceased. It is the 
task of the poet to record their noble actions 
—their benevolence—their patient suffering 
—their magnanimity—their self-denial ; and 
while he performs this sacred duty, his 
bosom burns with enthusiasm to imitate the 
virtues he extols. 
The loss of fortune is another cause of | 
grief, not less severely felt for being of com- | 
| 


They have lost the power to offend again, 


mon occurrence. ‘Those who have never 
tasted the real bitterness of poverty, tell us 
in the language of philosophy, that the loss 
of fortune is a very insufficient cause for the 
grief of a wise man; that our nature is not |' 
degraded when our bodies are clad in | 
homely garments; and that the friends | 


THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 


109 


whose esteem is worthy of our regard, will 
follow us as willingly to the clay cottage, as 
to the “ courts of kings?’ This might be all 
very true, did reason alone govern the 
world ; but we have another law—the law 
of feeling, more potent in its influence upon 
the affairs of mankind; and in this law tke 
poet is often much better instructed than the 
philosopher. The poet knows that to at- 
tempt to remove the pressure of the calami- 
ties of life, by reasoning, however plausibly, 
upon their transient or trifling nature, is 
not, in effect, to speak the language of com- 
mon sense; because it does not adapt itself 
to the feelings of those to whom it is address- 
ed, so as to render it available o1 even in- 
telligible. As well might we tell the victim 
of raging fever, that it is absurd to thirst. 
|| again, because he has but lately moistened 
his lips, as endeavour to persuade him who 
suffers from the loss of worldly wealth, to 
be comforted, because it is vain to grieve. 
The poet’s sphere being one of feeling, he 
has within himself so quick and clear an ap- 
preliension of all the sources of human pain 
or pleasure that he sees and understands at 
once why the change of fortune, the depri- 
| vation of accustomed privileges and enjoy- 
ments, and the gradual sinking to a lower 
| rank in social life, should occasion the deep- 
est sorrow and regret. Were reason the 
sole regulator of our passions and propensi- 
ties, we should never grieve; because we 
are taught by the experience of every day, 
that good may arise out of what we have 
blindly called evil; and because we are 
assured upon the highest evidence, that our 
worldly affairs even when darkest and most 
perplexed, are under the government of a 
gracious and unerring Providence: but the 
experience of every day teaches us also, 
that these important truths have not their 
proper weight in human calculations. Who, 
for instance, can meet with equanimity the 
clamorous attacks of suspicious creditors, 
whose claims he knows he is unable to.sup- 
ply? Who can bear the mute appeals of 
those who have been dependent upon his 
bounty and protection, when he has no 
longer the power to offer either—the looks 
estranged of former friends ; for friendship 
in the world is not what it is fabled to be in 
books, but will sometimes deviate from the 


rule of Scripture, by showing respect unto 
the persons of men—the reproaches, covert 
and open, which always fall upon Bie 
whose success has not been equal to their 
endeavours ; as if the affairs of this life were 
so regulated, that to succeed in obtaining 
money were the highest proof of merit—the 


gradual declension (owing to the taking 
away of props on every side when most 
needed) into a lower grade of society, where 
intellectual refinement is little valued, and 
difficult to be maintained—the signs of en- 
vious triumph exhibited by those who in our 
better days would have been our enemies 
if they had dared. Who can endure ail | 
these, and an endless variety of other causes | 
of suffering incident to fallen fortune, and | 
yet so fortify his soul by sage reasoning 
that it shall feel no anguish? No; the poet | 
knows what is in nature and in man; and | 
therefore he finds a fruitful theme of never- | 
failing interest in the fountain of his own | 
feelings, which, through the medium of | 


poetic language, is so conducted, as to mix, 
and blend, and harmonize with those of' 
others. 
A well known cause of grief, and one {a- | 
miliar to every poetic mind, is lonelincss. | 
In one sense it may be said that the poet | 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 


is never alone; but let us ask how it is that 
he learns to make | 


Perhaps there never was a poet who had | 
not first sought to find in his own species 
that real sympathy, for which he becomes 
afterwards satisfied to substitute the ideal. |, 
It is impossible but that the elevated and 
finely constituted mind should often find | 
itself alone, and if morbid and too sensitive, | 
as such minds generally are, it must be |: 
always so in the common hauhts of human | 
kind. The poet who can be satisfied with | 
nothing less than entire communion aru | 
sympathy of soul, is alone in the crowded | 
city, where, amidst the rush of thousands | 
of busy feet not one is found to pause because | 
he is near—alone in the garden’s flowery 
paths, where there is no eye to look lor 
beauty and delight in the same objects with | 


—“him friends of mountains; with.the stars, 
And the quick spirits of the universe 
Ze hold his dialogues Th 


his—alone beneath the starry canopy of 


per BERGA N yo ites cn ee de) 


110. 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


heaven, where none will join his midnight 
rambles---alone at the altar, where his pecu- 
liar, fnith is liable to be contemned---alone in 
the senson of grief---alone in the hour of 
joy--alone in all those cestatic emotions 
which give the power of life and action to 
the lighest faculties of our nature, raising it 
avove the common level of ordinary exis- 
tsnec---alone in those moments of weakness 
and dependence, when the soulis hungering 
aiter that intellectual sustenance which 
never yet was found in the selfish or sordid 
avocations of life, pining for the consolations 
| of a higher sympathy than the world affords, 
| and reaijy to lean upon the veriest reed for 
{j its support. To feel all this without the 
| power either of communicating or receiving 
| what is most intimately connected with ihe 
soul, is true loneliness; and therefore the 
poct, escaping from the contact of uncon- 
genial minds, flies to his own peculiar home 
in the bosom of nature, where, if the inter- 
course he meeis with be ideal, it is sufficient 
to satisfy a mind ctherealized like his; es- 
pecially as it differs from that of the world, 
in being such as will neither mock nor mar 
the harmony of hisown breast. But this in- 
tercourse is notin reality ideal. The Author 
of our being has so constructed the world, 
wnimate and inanimate, that there are laws 
of sympathy and association unmarked by 
ihe obtuse perceptions of sensual beings, 
which connect the different, and to us appa- 
rently incongruous parts of the universe, so 
is to form an entire and perfect whole. 

We read of a solitary prisoner immured 
withia the bare walls of a dungeon, who 
tamed a spider, and even loved it; because 
the principle of love was strong within him, 
anil he ha. no other object for his affections. 
Love is hut one of the many stimulants that 
urge us on to seek through the world for 
objects on which these affections can be 
lavished, and situations in which they may 
be indulged; and if deprived of the power 
of cratilying our tastes and wishes by change 
of’ scene or circumstance, imagination will do 
her utmost to transform what is repulsive 
in itsell) into an object of tenderness, interest 
or admiration: for such are the bounds 
Which couneet our intellectual nature with 
the material world, that the mind must lay 
hold of something to grapple with, appropri- 


| 


——— 
—<<$___ 


ate, or destroy. It cannot exist alone and 
separate from association. . 

As it isthe nature of all grievances to 
awaken suggestions of their own remedy, so 
he poet, after deeply experiencing the grief 
arising from loneliness, learns to satisfy his 
soul in its pining after a spiritual communion 
with all that is pure, and lovely, and sublime, 
by an ideal converse with nature. Having 
found the objects of his search but seldom, 
or where they existed, but faintly revealed 
amongst the children of men, he returns 
with fresh ardour, and renewed desire to the 
solitude of the sequestered valley, the heights 
of the trackless mountain, or the echoing 
shores of the ever restless sea; not because 
he actually believes, what his muse some- 
times fantastically describes, that “myriads 
of happy spirits walk the air unseen,” de- 
livering their earthly errand to his privileged 


‘and attentive ear; but because there exists | 


in his bosom an insatiable love of what is 
sweet,and calm, and soothing, which he finds 
in the freshness and repose of nature—an 
intense enjoyment of what is elevated, and 
majestic, which crowns his labour in climb- 
ing to the mountain’s brow—a deep sense 
of power, and grandeur, and magnificence, 
which leads him to the ocean’s brink, to pour 
his soul forth in its native element—the true 
sublime. 

The last character under which we shall 
attempt to describe the poetical nature of 
grief, is that of pity—a sentiment so admira- 
bly adapted to the relief of the wants and 
sufferings of humanity, that we regard it as 
one of our greatest blessings; because we owe 
to pity half the kind offices of life, never feel- 
ing the pain itawakens in ourselves, without 
feeling also some laudable impulse, and 
seldom witnessing the signs of it in others, 
without hailing them as omens of good. In- 
deed so powerful is the influence of pity, that 
it is the first refuge of innocence—the last 
of guilt; and when artifice would win from 
feeling what it*wants merit to obtain from 
discretion, it never fails to appeal to pity 
with an exaggerated history of suffering and 
distress. 

But for the gentle visitations of pity, the 
couch of suffering would be desolate indeed. 
Pain, and want, and weakness would be 
left to water the earth with tears, and reap 


ee ce 


eS I a a ST _ 


—_— ee 


THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 


m solitude the harvest of despair. The 
prisoner in his silent cell, would listen in vain 
for the step of his last earthly friend; and 
the reprobate beneath the world’s dread 
stigma, involving in wretchedness and ruin, 
would find no faithful hand to lift the pall of 
public disgrace, and reclaim the lost one 
from a living death. But more than all, 
without pity, we should want the bright 
opening in the heavens through which the 
radiance of returning peace shines forth upon 
the tears of penitence—we should want the 
ark of shelter when the waters of the deluge 
were gathering around us—we should want 
the cloud by day, and the pilliar of fire by 
night to guide our wanderings through the 
wilderness. 

The griefarising from pity is the only dis- 
interested grief we are capable of; and 
therefore it carries a balm along with it, 
which imparts something of enjoyment to 
the excitement it creates; but for its acute- 
ness of sensation, we have the warrant of 
the deep workings of more violent passions, 
which pity has not unfrequently the power 
to overcome. History affords no stronger 
proof of this, than when Coriolanus yielded 
to the tears of his mother, and the matrons 
of Reme, what he had refused to the entrea- 
ties of his friends, and the claims of his 
country. 

But if pity, connected with the power of 
alleviating misery, is mingled with enjoy- 
ment, pity without this power is one of 
the most agonizing of our griefs. To live 
amongst the oppressed without being able 
to break their bonds—amongst the poor with- 
out the means of giving—to walk by the side 
of the feeble without a hand to help—to hear 
the cries of the innocent without a voice to 
speak of peace, are trials to the heart, and 
to the will, unparalleled in the register of 
grief. And it is this acuteness of sensation, 
connected with the unbounded influence of 


| pity, and the circumstance of its being woven 


in with the chain of kindness, and love, and 


| charity, by which human suffering is con- 


| nected with human virtue, that constitutes 


the poetry of grief in its character of pity 
—a, character so sacred, that we trace it not 
| only ‘through the links of human fellowship, 
binding together the dependent children of 


|; earth; but also through God’s government, 


| 


I A 


up to the source of all our mercies, where, 
separate from its mortal mixture of pain, pity 
performs its holy offices of mercy and for- 
giveness. 


ny SL, 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


Arter what has already been said of love 
and grief, we feel that to treat at large upon 
the poetry of woman, must be in some mea- 
sure to recapitulate what forms the sub- 
stance of the two preceding chapters; be- 
cause, from the peculiar nature and tenden- 
cy of woman’s character, love and grief may 
be said to constitute the chief elements of 
her existence. That she is preserved from 
the overwhelming influence of grief, so fre- 
quently recurring, by the reaction of her 
own buoyant and vivacious spirit, by the 
fertility of her imagination in multiplying 
means of happiness, and by her facility in 
adapting herself to place and time, and lay- 
ing hold of every support which surrounding 
circumstances afford, she has solely to thank 
the Author of her life, who has so regulated 
the balance of human joys and sorrows, that 
none are necessarily entirely and irremedia- 
bly wretched. On glancing superficially at 
the general aspect of society, all women, and 
all men who see and speak impartially, 
would pronounce the weaker sex to be 
doomed to more than an equal share of suf- 
fering ; but happily for woman, her internal 


resources are such as to raise her at least to |: 


a level with man in the scale of happiness. 
Bodily weakness and liability to illness is 
one of the most obvious reasons why woman 
is looked upon as an object of compassion. 
Scarcely a day passes in which she has not 
some ache or pain that would drive a man 
melancholy, and yet how quietly she rests 
her throbbing temples; how cheerfully she 
converses with every one around her, thus 
beguiling her thoughts from her own suffer- 
ings; how patiently she resigns herself to 
the old accustomed chair, as if chained to 
the very hearth-stone; while the birds are 
warbling forth their welcome to returning 
spring, and she knows that the opening 
flowers are scenting the fresh gales that 


play around the garden where she may not 


ST ep ees 


ee aay ans 
111} 


eee 


a 


— 


112 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


| tread, and that the sunny skies are lighting 
up the landscape with a beauty which she 
may not look upon—it is possible, which she 
| never may behold again. Yet what is all 
| this to woman? Her happiness is not in 
physical enjoyment, but in love and faith. 
| Give her but the voice of kindness—the pure 
| sweet natural music of the feminine soul, 
| to soothe her daily anguish—to cheer her 
| nightly vigil, and she will ask no more: tell 
| her of the green hills, the verdant woods, 
'| and the silver streams, of the songs of the 
| birds, and the frolic of the lambs, of nature’s 
radiant beauty glowing beneath a cloudless 
| sky, and of the universal gladness diffused 
| through the animal creation—tell her all this, 
in which she has, personally, no participa- 
| tion, and she will be satisfied, nay, blest. 
| Inthe natural delicacy of woman’s con- 
| stitution, however, we see only one of the 
slightest of the causes of suffering peculiar to 
her character and station in society ; because 
'| her feelings are so entirely relative and depen- 
dent, that they can never be wholly, or even 
half absorbed by that which is confined to her 
own experience, without reference to that of 
others. There are unquestionably many 
exceptions to this rule, but the rule is the 
same notwithstanding; and I desire to be 
understood to speak not of women. indivi- 
dually, but of the essential characteristics 
of. woman as a genius. Amongst these 
characteristics, 1 am almost proud to name 
her personal disinterestedness, shown by 
the unhesitating promptness with which she 
devotes herself to watchfulness, labour, and 
suffering of almost every kind, for, or in lieu 
of others. In seasons of helplessness, mis- 
ery, or degradation, who but woman comes 
forward to support, to console, and to re- 
claim? From the wearisome disquietudes 
of puling infancy, to the impatience and 
decrepitude of old age, it is woman alone 
that bears with all the trials and vexations 
which the infirmities of our nature draw 
down upon those around us. Through the 
monotony of ceaseless misery, it is woman 
alone that will listen to the daily murmur- 
ings of fruitless anxiety, and offer again the 
cup of consolation after it has been petulantly 
dashed at her feet. It is woman who with- 
, draws not her sweet companionship from 
| that society whose intercourse is in sighs 


and tears. What is it to her that the bril- | 
liance of wit is now extinguished, the fa- | 
vourite anecdotes untold, and silent all the 
flattering enconiums that flow from love and 
gratitude. It is enough for her that the lips 
now sealed by grief, the eye now dim with 
tears, and the heart now tortured with agony, 
are dear—dearer in their unutterable wo, 
than the choicest pleasures of the world, did 
they centre in herself alone. No; woman 
will not leave the idol of her worship be- 
cause the multitude have turned away to 
bow before another shrine, because the 
wreaths have faded away from the altar, or || 
because the symbols of religion are no more. 
She hears the popular outery that her vows 
are offered to a false deity, but she will not 
believe, because her faith makes it true. A 
higher object of devotion is pointed out to 
her, but she clings to that which her imagi- 
nation has invested, and still invests, with 
all the attributes of a celestial being; until 
at last it falls before her, a hopeless and 
irrecoverable ruin, and then, after vainly. 
struggling to hide its degradation, she goes 
forth into the wilderness alone. 

For the poetry of her character, woman |} 
is chiefly indebted to her capability of feel- 
ing, extended beyond the possibility of cal- 
culation, by her naturally vivid imagination ; 
yet she unquestionably possesses other men- 
tal faculties, by no means inconsiderable in 
the scale of moral and intelligent beings. 
Those who, depriving woman of her right- | 
ful title to intellectual capacity, would con- | 
sign her wholly to the sphere of passion and 
affection; and those who, on the opposite | 
side, are perpetually raving about her equal- 
ity with man, and lamenting over the inferior 
station in society which she is doomed to 
fill, are equally prejudiced in. their view of 
the subject, superficial in their reasoning 
upon it, and absurd in their conclusions. In 
her intellectual capacity, 1 am inclined to 
believe that woman is equal to man, but in her 
intellectual power she is greatly his inferior ; 
because, from the succession of unavoidable 
circumstances which occur to interrupt the 
train of her thoughts, it is seldom that she is 
able to concentrate the forces of her mind, 
and to continue their operations upon one 
given point, so as to work out any of those 
splendid results, which ensue from the more 


Slee 


a a = es 


eee — 


a wa > 


| 


i 


ES 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


113 


fixed and determinate designs of man. To 
woman, belong all the miner duties of life, 
she is therefore incapable of commanding 
her own time, or even her own thoughts ; 
in her sphere of action, the trifling events 
of the moment, involving the principles of 
good and evil, which instantly strike upon 
her lively and acute perceptions, become of 
the utmost importance ; and each of these 
duties, with its train of relative considera- 
tions, bearing directly upon the delicate fa- 
bric of her mind, so organized as to render 
it liable to the extremes of pain or pleasure, 
arising out of every occurrence, she is con- 
sequently unable so to regulate her feelings, 
as to leave the course of her intellectual 
pursuits uninterrupted. 

Suppose for instance, a woman is studying 
Euclid when she hears the ery of her child ; 
in an instant she plunges into the centre of 
her domestic cares, and Euclid is forgotten. 
Suppose another, (for such things have 
been,) deeply engaged in the dry routine of 
classic lore, when suddenly the fair student 
sees something in the eye of her tutor, or 
hears something in his voice, which puts to 
flight the Roman legions, and dismisses the 
Carthaginian queen to weep away her 
wrongs unpitied and alone. Suppose a 
woman admitted within the laboratory of a 


— 


chymist, and listening with the mute attention 


of a devotee to his learned dissertations 
upon his favourite science, when, behold, 
her watchful eye is fixed upon the care-worn 
brow and haggard cheek of the philosopher, 
and she longs to lead him away from his 
deleterious drugs and essences, into the 
green fields, or home to the quiet comforts 
of her own fire-side, where she would rather 
cherish his old age with warm clothing and 
generous diet, than ponder upon the scien- 
tific truths he has been labouring to instil 
into her mind. Suppose another studying 
the course of the stars, when by one of those 
|, involuntary impulses by which thoughts are 
let into the mind we know not how, the form 
| of her departed friend rushes back upon her 
memory, and suddenly, beneath that hea- 
i venly host, whose sublimity her rapt soul 
had been almost adoring, she stands alone, 


|| a weak and trembling woman; and asks no 


more of the glistening stars, than some faint 


8 


glimmering of hope that she may yet be 
permitted to shelter herself beneath the 
canopy of domestic and social love. Sup- 
pose a woman mentally absorbed in the 
eventful history of past times, pondering 
upon the rise and fall of nations, the princi- 
ples of government, and the march of civ- 
ilization over the peopled globe ; when sud- 
denly there is placed in her hand a letter— 
one of those mute messengers which some- 
times change in a moment, the whole col- 
ouring of a woman’s life, not only clothing 


| in shade or sunshine the immediate aspect 


of nature and surrounding things, but the 
illimitable expanse of her imaginary future. 


A letter to a woman is not a mere casual |! 


thing, to be read like a newspaper. Its 
arrival is an event of expectancy, of hope, 
and fear; and often seems to arrest in a 
moment the natural current of her blood, 
sending it by a sudden revulsion, to circle in 


a baekward course through all her palpi- 


tating veins. In the instance we have sup- 
posed, the letter may convey the sad intel- 
ligence of the sickness of a friend or relative, 
who requires the immediate attention of a 
faithful and devoted nurse. The book is 
closed. The quiet hours of reading, and 
study, are exchanged for the wearisome 
day, the watchful night, the soothing of 
fretfulness, and the ministration of comfort 
and kind offices ; while the heroes of ancient 
Greece are forgotten, and the Cesars and 
the Ptolemies are indiscriminately consigned 
to an ignominious tomb. 

It is owing to circumstances such as these, 
daily and even hourly occurring, that women 
are disqualified for great literary attain- 
ments; and every impartial judge will 
freely acknowledge that itis not her want 
of capacity to understand the fundamental 
truths of science and philosophy; but her 
utter inability from circumstance and situa- 
tion, diligently to pursue the investigation 
of such truths, and when clearly ascertained, 
to store up and apply them to the highest 
intellectual purposes, which constitutes the 
difference between the mental faculties of 
woman and those of a nobler sex. 

Nor let the pedant call this a defect in wo- 
man’s nature ; that alone can be a defect by 
which anything is hindered from answering 


aoe perenne feiec ion ai aay alpen aise lineees oF <Aiiaieeeeassis—aesaey so Sasa ellie neti einetauensnbunsatieaea 


| 


revelation of her earthly destiny—some | the purpose for which it was designed. | | 


114 


Man is appointed to hold the reins of goy- 
ernment, to make laws, to support systems, 
to penetrate with patient labour and unde- 
viating perseverance into the mysteries of 
science, and to work out the great funda- 
mental principles of truth. 
poses he would be ill qualified, were he 
liable to he diverted from his object by the 
quickness of his perception of external things, 
by the ungovernable impulse of his own 


feelings, or by the claims of others upon his | 


| regard or sensibility; but woman’s sphere 
| being one of feeling rather than of intellect, 
all her peculiar characteristics are such as 
essentially qualify her for that station in so- 
ciety which she is designed to fill, and which 
she never voluntarily quits without a sacrifice 
of good taste—I might almost say, of good 
principle. Weak indeed is the reasoning of 
those who would render her dissatisfied with 
this allotment, by persuading her that the 
station, which it ought to be her pride to or- 
nament, is one too insignificant or degraded 
for the fyll exercise of her mental powers. 
Can that be an unimportant vocation to 
which peculiarly belong the means of happi- 
ness and misery? Can that be a degraded 
|| sphere which not only admits of, but re- 
| quires the full developement of moral feel- 
ing? Is ita task too trifling for an intellect- 
ual woman, to watch, and guard, and stimu- 
late the growth of reason in the infant 
| mind? Is it a sacrifice too small to practice 
the art of adaptation to all the different char- 
acters met with in ordinary life, so as to in- 


tastes ona pursuits ? Is it a duty too easy, 
faithfully and constantly to hold up an ex- 
ample of self-government, disinterestedness, 


est good—to be nothing, or anything that is 
not evil, as the necessities of others may re- 
quire—to wait with patience—to endure 


soothe by sympathy judiciously applied—to 
be quick in understanding, prompt in action, 
and, what is perhaps more difficult than all, 


of perplexity, trial, and temptation, to main- 
tain the calm dignity ofa pure and elevated 
character, earthly in nothing but its suffering 


For such pur- | 


fluence, and give a right direction to their | 
| supply the mind with so many interesting | 


with fortitude—to attract by gentleness—to | 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


time to sacrifice her lover to her love of pow- 
| * . + 
er; and those affairs, said to be of the heart, 


_ bewildered travetler; but without the light ' 
pliabte yet firm in will—-lastly, through a life 


in the seraphic ardour of its love, its faith, 
and its devotion. 

The same causes which operate against 
the intelectual attainments of woman, unfit 
her for arbitrary rule. Queen Elizabeth, 
one of the most distinguished of female sove- 
reigns, was womanly in nothing but her 
vanity and artifice. She was ready at any 


which rendered her despicable in old age 
were nothing better than flirtations founded 
upon personal adulation, selfishness, and 
caprice. But deficient in the nobler charac- 
teristics of generous feeling, in enthusiasm, 
and devotedness, she was the better qualified 
to maintain her regal dignity, and to pursue 
those deep-laid scuemes of policy and ambi- 
tion which raised her to a level with the 
greatest potentates of Europe; while her 
ill-starred rival, Mary of Scotland, a “ very, 
very woman!” who, with the richest en- 
dowments of head and heart, might, as a 
wile, have proved a blessing to any man who 
had the good feeling to appreciate her 
worth, raised to the throne, became the bane 
of her empire; and as a queen, was eventu- | 
ally the most unfortunate that ever let in 
misrule and rebellion upon her state, or 
brought down disgrace and destruction up- 
on herselt: 

It is only in her proper and natural sphere, 
that woman is poetical. Self-supported, as 
a sovereign or a save, she 
loveliest attributes. 
alone, firmly, and without support, can never j, 


and poetical associations, as that which has | 


| a relative existe:ce and is linked in with the 
and zeal for that which constitutes our bigh- | 


chain of creation by the sympathies or neces- II 
sities of its own nature. A single barren | 
hill, in the midst of a desert, without sun- |! 
shine, without shade, without verdure, or i 
any perceptible variety in its surface, would |, 
afford little to interest the feelings of the | 

| 

i 


poet. It might serve as a landmark to the | 
of the sun, or the shadow of intervening 


— 


clouds upon its summit, without the gar- 
ment of verdure, or the varieties of beetling a 


rock, and precipice, and deep ravine around 


and weakness; refined almost to sublimity | its sloping sides; and above all, without its 


| 


wants all her |/ 
That which stands | 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


“mighty shadow in a weary land,” it could 
not be an object upon which the eye would 
linger with delight, or the excursive faculty 
of imagination find food and exercise. ‘The 
lightest bird that plumes its wing upon the 
leafy bough, or, “tuning its native wood 
notes wild,” soars up to the clear expanse 
of heaven’s ethereal blue; the frailest plant 
twining its parasitical arms around the sup- 
porting stem, lavishing its prodigal sweets 
upon the morning air, or scattering its faded 
leaves upon the gales of the wilderness ; 
the faintest cloud that sails before the face 
of the moon, basking for a moment in her 
vestal smile, wearing her silver livery, and 
then wreathing her forehead in fantastic 
folds of mist and vapour before it floats 
away, formless, and void, into the dark 
abyss of unfathomable night, are objects in 
themselves, in their attributes, relations, 
and associations, infinitely more poetical 
than the single mountain: and it is precisely 
upon the same principle, that woman with 
her boundless sympathies, her weakness, 
her frailty, her quick perceptions, her inex- 
haustible energies, in all that constitutes 
the very essence of her character, is more 
poetical than man. 

Yet notwithstanding all this, in the art 
of writing poetry, women prove themselves 


decidedly inferior to the other sex; for the. 


same causes which retard their progress in 
the more laborious walks of science, are 
equally forcible here. Beyond a very limited 
extent woman is incapable of concentrated, 
fixed, and persevering attention. We have 
many instances that she can, as it were out 
of the momentary fulness of her own heart, 
* discourse most eloquent music,” but she is 
unequal to any of those lasting productions 
of poetic genius, which continue from age to 
age to delight the world. Iam unwilling 
however even in this instance to attribute to 
her mental inferiority, what appears to me 
as more probably owing to the uncontrolled 
influence of her imagination, the faculty 
most essential to the poet, which women 
possess in so great a degree, that its very 
exuberance of growth prevents the ripening 
of those rich fruits of which its profusion of 
early blossom gives deceitful promise. The 
imagination of woman may be compared to 


la quick growing plant, which shoots out so 


many slender twigs and tendrils, that the 
main stem is weakened, and the whole plant 
unable to raise itsellfrom the earth, continues 
to bud and blossom, and send forth innu- 
merable shoots which altogether form a 


beautiful group of flowers and verdure, but. 
nothing more; while the imagination of. 
man resembles a stately tree, whose firm’ 


and continuous stem, exactly’ proportioued 


to the support and nourishment of the nu- 


merous branches in their subordinate place 
completes the majesty, the utility, and the 
beauty of the whole. The imagination of 
woman is sufficiently vivid and, excursive to 
iake in the widest range of poetical sublimity, 
but unfortunately it meets with so many in- 
terruptions in that range, and deviates so 
often from its proper object to waste itself 
upon others of minor imporiance, that it sel- 
dom attains any laudable end, or accom- 
plishes any lasting purpose. 

It is impossible for those who have merely 
studied the nature of woman’s mind, to com- 
prehend the rapidity of her. thoughts, and 
the versatility of her feelings. ‘Touch but 
one sensitive chord, and her imagiration 
takes flight upon the wings of the butterfly 
over the garden of earth, up into mid air. 
beyond the lark, that sweetest intelligencer 
of sublunary joy, higher, still higher, 
through illimitable space, ascending to the 
regions of peace and glory, and passing 
through the everlasting gates into the com- 
munion of sainis, and blessed spirits, whose 
feet “sandalled with immortality,” trace the 
green margin of the river of eternal life. 

Would that the imagination of woman 
had always this upward tendency, but, 
alas! it is not satisfied even with the frui- 
tion of happiness; it cannot rest even in the 
bosom of repose ; it is not sufficiently re- 
freshed, even by that stream whose waters 
make glad the celestial city. The light of 
some loved countenance perchance is want- 
ing there, and the spirit, late soaring on de- 
lighted wing, now plunges downward 
amongst the grosser elements of earth, 
while lured on by the irresistible power of 
sympathy, it chooses rather to follow the 
erring or the lost through all the mazy 
windings of sin and sorrow, than to rise 
companionless to glory. 

With such an imagination, startled, ex- 


i 
a TT Tete ET I 


| than anxious to investigate. 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


cited. and diverted from its object, not only 
by every sight or sound in earth or air, but 
by every impulse of the affections and the 
will, it is impossible that woman in her in- 
tellectual attainments should ever equal man, 
nor is it necessary for her usefulness, her 
happiness, or the perfection of her charac- 
ter, that she should. As she is circum- 
stanced in the world, it is one of her great- 
est charms, that she is willing to trust rather 
While she 
does this she will be feminine, and while she 
is feminine she must be poetical. 

The power of adaptation is another qua- 
lity, which, next to imagination, is strikingly 
conspicuous in woman, and without which 
she would lose half her loveliness, and half 
her value. There is no possible event in 
human life which she is unable, not only to 
understand, but to understand feelingly ; 
and no imaginable character, except the 
cross or the vile, with which she cannot im- 
mediately identify herself. 

it is considered a mere duty, too common 
for observation, and too necessary for 


rows to smile with the gay, or lays aside 
her own secret joys to weep with the sad. 
| But let lordly man make the experiment for 


| one half hour, and he will then be better ac- 


quainted with this system of self-sacrifice, 
which woman in every station of society, 
from the palace to the cottage, maintaiis 
through the whole of her life, with little 
commendation, and with no reward, except 
that which is attached to every effort of dis- 
interested virtue. It is thought much of, 
and biazoned forth to the world, when the 


|| Victim at the stake betrays no sign of pain ; 


but does it evince less fortitude for the vic- 
tim of corroding care to give no outward 
evidence of the anguish of a writhing soul ? 
—to go forth arrayed in smiles, when burn- 
ing ashes are upon the heart ?—to meet, as 
a woman can meet, with a never-failing 
welcome the very cause of all her suffering ? 
—and to woo back with the sweetness of 
her unchangeable love, him who knows 
neither constancy nor truth ? 

It is unquestionably the exercise of this 
faculty of adaptation, which attaches to wo- 


has no power to command, therefore to at- 


praise, when a woman forgets her own sor- } 


tain her purpose she can only win; and in 
order to win, she must in some measure 
adapt herself to the feelings of those who: 
hold the object of her wishes in their keep- 
ing. But for one instance in which this is || 
done to serve a selfish purpose, we might || 
count a thousand where it is done for pure || 
sympathy and love, and tens of thousands 
where she submits to the disappointment of 
her dearest hopes, without attempting, even 
in this humble manner, to obtain what she 
desires. 

Women can not only adapt themselves to 
the habits and peculiarities of others, but 
they can actually feel with them—enter into | 
their very being and penetrate the deep re- 
cesses of their souls. ‘Thus they are no less | 
interesting in themselves, than really interest- 
ed in what they hear and see. Insociety they 
have the character of being diligent talkers, 
but are they not good listeners also? And 
where they do not actually listen, they can 
pretend to do so, which answers the purpose 
of the speaker just as well. A truly ayvree- 
able woman knows how to give a quick and 
delicate turn to conversation, so as to avoid 
an unpleasant dilemma or produce a pleas- 
ing eflect; she knows how, and to whor, 
to address her good things, and never wastes 
them upon the wrong person; she discovers | 
the secret bias of the character, and benis 
the same way, or Opposes so gently, that 
resistance becomes an agreeable amuse- 
tent; she reads the eye, and discourses 
eloquently in the language of the heart; 
and she allows herself caprice enough to 
ruffle the monotony of life, but not sufficient 
to create tumult or confusion. Without 
diving so deep as to be lost, she glides over 
the surface of things and makes herself ac- 
quainted with their nature, and their impor- 
tance in the aggregate of lile. She can 
enter into the different elements of hu- 
man nature, and assuming every variety of 
form of which it is capable, can endure 
every change of time, and place, and cir- 
cumstance, and, what is most wonderful, 
retain her own identity in each. All this 
she can do with little of the “borrowed aid 
of ornament.” The charm is within herself, 
and like the great enchantress of the Nile, 


| 
| 


: pa it 


a ee ep ee ee 


man’s character the stigma of artifice. She | she imparts it to everything around her. 


For want of the power which is in nature, 


. 


eo 


ee 


our writers of romance are compelled to 
} make all their heroines beautiful—to place 
them upon thrones, or beds of violets—to 
-spangle them over with pearls, and blanche 
them to the whiteness of snow—to wreath 
them with roses, and scatter flowers beneath 
their feet—to endow them with all languages, 
and all gifts of music and eloquence, pour- 
ing forth the wisdom of the sage from the 
lips of the cherub. But it is not so in com- 
mon life; there is a witchery in nature 
which it is impossible for art to attain, anda 
truly charming woman clad in russet weeds, 
may darn her husband’s stockings and be 
‘| charming still. 

Yet after all, it is not by the examination 
of any particular talent, faculty, or endow- 
ment, that we become acquainted with the 
true poetry of woman’s character; for such 
is her liability to be affected by every change 
of circumstance, and such her capacity for 
receiving pain and pleasure, that we must 
always speak of her in reference to her 
state of feeling, rather than her capability 
of mind. Her thoughts for the most part, 
are combinations of indistinct ideas, which 
| flow together in.a tide too rapid, too impetu- 
| ous, and too generally directed by her affec- 
tions, to admit of the strict government of 
| right reason. She beholds not only the 
| presentand the palpable, but the contrast, and 
| the similitude ofeverything around her. The 
| past and the future are spread before her 
like pictures, whose colouring varies with 
| the tone and temper of her own mind. In 
one moment, the vivid glow of happiness is 
diffused over the scene, and in the next, the 
sombre shadow of despair. Exulting in the 
acquisition of some unexpected joy, what a 
glad free spirit is that of woman, soaring 
without bound or limitation, far beyond the 
reach of fear, and spurning at the appre- 
hension of future pain—under the pressure 
of atfliction, how sad, how low, how utterly 
cast down! Bursting forth upon the wings 
of hope, the soul of woman knows no im- 
pediment. Impossibility is no barrier to its 
course. It sees that which is without form, 
hears voices in the depth of silence, and lays 
hold of things which have no tangible exis- 
tence. 

All this may be called absurd, and so it 
would be, if the allusions of the mind were 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


‘her affection could retain the character with 


117 


not permitted to lift us occasionally above 
the grossness and heaviness of life. Without 
this mysterious power to create food for its 
own felicity, the mind of woman would sink 
beneath its burdens, and in tead of a bright, 
vivacious being, ever the iirst to welcome 
sunshine—the last to yield to gloom, woman 
would be alike wearisome as a companion, 
feeble as a helpmate, and impotent ag a 
comforter. All this would be absurd too, if 
the sphere of woman were the same as that 
of man; but as a woman I am well con- 
vinced that those peculiarities for which she 
is too frequently ridiculea and despised, 
arise either from the excess or the abuse of 
natural qualities, which under proper disci- 
pline, might have been made conducive to 
her own, and other’s happiness. 

The want of stability, consistency and 
depth, is perceptible only in woman’s intel- 
lectual pursuits. In all that belongs to her 
affections, and her social duties, she is 
faithful, sincere, and firm. It is true, she is 
called fickle, but as has been remarked hy 
an amiable and talented writer, “ her incon- 
sistency is of the head rather than of the | 
heart.”* Believing what she hopes, she 
takes her friends upon trust, and loving 
rashly, must necessarily be often deceived ; 
but it does not follow that if the object of 


which her own fancy invested it, she would 
not still love with the same constancy, and 
“love for ever.” : 
From the varied and fluctuating nature | 
of woman’s feelings, as well as from their 
power, their expansion, and their depth, it is 
impossible to say individually what she is, 
or what she might be, because the ordinary 
routine of life, particularly of polished life, 
admits of little development of the passions 
and affections. It is only in cases of trial || 
that she proves herself, and therefore all | 
writers who have drawn from nature, in | 
attempting to delineate the character of || 
woman, have done it by a few impressive |! 
strokes, rather than by general description. | 
Amongst numerous instances of this kind | 
abounding in the works of Shakspeare, I 
shall point out one which bears most strik- | 


* Mrs. Sandford, anthor of “ Woman in her Social and 
Domestic Character.”’ 


118 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


| 


ingly the impress of a master hand. It is 
the last speech of Desdemona in the horrible 
scene of her murder. ASmilia, her attend- 
ant, hears her dying voice, and, beginning 
to suspect there has been foul play, ex- 
claims, 


‘« QO, who hath done 
This deed 7” 


“Nobody; I myself; farewell: 
Commend me to my kind lord; O, farewell!” 


is answered by the wretched victim. Who 
can read these lines without acknowledging 
the writer’s profound and intimate acquaint- 
ance with the heart of woman? First, Des- 
demona answers “ Nobody,” from the impulse 
of a sudden desire to clear her hushand 
from suspicion ; but immediately recollecting 
that this will not be sufficient, she adds, “J 
myself ;” and. then to complete the whole— 
to give the climax to her faithfulness and 
devotion, she continues, “Commend me to 
my kind lord”—to that very lord whose 
hand was just unloosed from its fatal hold, 
and who stood beside her neither penitent 
nor triumphant, but literally stupified with 
the magnitude and the horror of the deed 
which yet he had not the power to behold 
as a crime. 

Another instance of a gentler and more 
pleasing character, occurs in Wallenstein, 
as translated by Coleridge, where the prin- 
cess, after the death of Max, claims the 
tenderest office of friendship from her faith- 
ful companion. 


THEKLA. 


“ Now gentle Newbrun, show me the affection 
\Which thou has ever promised ; prove thyself 
My own true friend and fellow-pilgrim. 

This night we must away. 


NEWBRUN. 


6 Away! and whither? 
THEKLA. 


“Whither! There is but one place in the world. - 
Thiiher where he lies buried !” 


In these few words we see the magnitude 
of woman’s love, and the absorbing nature of 
her grief. Herself and the whole universe 
sink into nothing in comparison with that 
single point of space. She is surprised that 
her friend should ask “ whither,” and almost 


SEY I SULT SEES ROTTS IEE 


there is now “but one place in the world.” 
Lord Byron has in many instances proved 
both his talent and his taste, by giving us 
the true poetry of woman’s character in a 
few touching words. I shall select one re- 
markable for its simplicity and pathos. It 
occurs in Cain, after the perpetration of the 
first murder, where the fratricide has re- 
ceived the malediction of one parent, and 
been driven out by the other. Adah, whose 
character is beautifully and justly drawn 
throughout, remains with him after the others 
have departed, and addresses him in these © 
words :— 


| 
reproaches her for not remembering that | 
| 


ADAH. 


“Cain! thou hast heard we must go forth. Iam ready, 
So shall our children be. _ I will bear Enoch, 
And thou his sister. Tre the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night,—Nay, speak to me, 
To me—thine own. 


Cain. 

‘Leave me! 
ADAH. 

“ Why all have left thee. 
CAIN. 


1 * F 
“ And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this? 
ADAH. 


“T fear 
Nothing except to Jeave thee, much as 1 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this, zt ts between thee 
And the great God.” 


There can be no stronger bond to a firm 
and faithful woman, than that “all have lefi” 
the object of her love. Adah feels this, and 
offers no other reason. Besides which she 
utters no reproach; enough has already 
been said, and like a pure spirit descending 
upon earth for purposes of love and mercy, 
she stoops with her husband beneath his 
degradation, and though confessedly shrink- 
ing from the fatal deed, meekly and reveren- 
tially places it solely between him “and the 
great God.” ; 

In order to define with greater precision || 
what it is that constitutes the poetry of wo- || 
man’s character, we must enter yet more |: 
closely into her individual feelings, and for || 
this purpose it is necessary to trace her ex- | 
perience through the different stages of ex- 


A te SS ee 5S Se tract Lie a aoe Per 


| THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


istence, in which we behold her asa girl, 
a maiden, a wife, a mother, and an old wo- 
man. . 

It is difficult to say which is least impor- 
tantin the scale of human beings—a little girl 
or anold woman; but certainly the former in- 
spires us with a kind of tenderness, which is 
rarely, too rarely, bestowed upon the latter. 
So long as the sphere of her childish enjoy- 
ments is unassailed by affliction, especially 
by that heaviest of all domestic calamities, 
the loss of a kind and judicious mother, the 
existence of a young girl is happy as it is 
innocent. With her, day after day dances 
on in the perpetual sunshine of domestic 
love, and night only comes to remind her of 
the shelter of the maternal wing. Directed 
by the impulse of her feelings towards those 
duties which are to be her portion in after 
life, she tends her flowers, cherishes her pet 
lamb, or nurses the wounded bird; and true 
to the dictates of nature, devotes her feeble 
strength, her earnest thoughts, and her ar- 
dent wishes to the happiness of others. If 
from the mal-administration of domestic dis- 
cipline she should become selfish, her sole 
gratification continues to be derived from 
surrounding things, and she never seeks it 
in the centre of her own bcsom, but remains 
dependent still. It may be, that she is some- 
times unreasonable in requiring more than 
she bestows, but the perfect abandonment 
with which she throws herself upon the good 
will and generosity of others, ought at least 
to claim their protection, if it fails to ensure 
their esteem. 

But let us suppose any of the dark visita- 
tions of sin and sorrow to fall upon the do- 
mestic scene. It is then that the rosy girl is 
called in from her play, to watch and wait, 
to bear the harsh rebuke, to know the inno- 
cent wish denied, to sympathize with the un- 
told grief, to cultivate a premature acquaint- 
ance with the outward signs of inward wo, 
and to feel what it is to have the cherub 
wingsof childhood burdened with the cares of 
age. Perhaps the maternal voice is hushed, 
and the hand that used to smooth her 
nightly pillow cold in the grave. Who then 
is left to pity the little mourner, as silently, 
and unobserved, she passes on through life, 
seeking for what the whole world is too poor 
to bestow—a second mother ? 


agreeable to others, purely because it is 


a erent 


Lig 


Time passes, and the impulse of affection 
mingles with the dawn of reason. Her in- 
tellects are limited to the regular routine of 
education, while her passions are left free: 
and thus her feelings become matured, while 
her talents remain in the bondage of infan- 
cy. Ifthe page of history is held up before 
her, she sees it not as it is, but in the vivid 
colouring of her ownimagination. She will 
not learn the truth, because it accords not 
with her aspiring hopes, and ardent wishes, 
which have already taken precedence of her 
knowledge. She cannotlisten to the lore of 
past ages, because she is busy combating 
present disappointments, and just beginning 
to feel that her eflorts are in vain; for the 
voice of experience, louder that that of in- 
struction, rises above the light carolling of 
joy, and will be heard. Her buoyant spirit 
repelled, as easily as it is attracted, mounts 
in exultation, or sinks in despair, and occu- 
pies with its alternations of | ain and pleasure, 
those hours which ought to be devoted to 
the cultivation of the intellectual powers. 
Thrown by her natural dependence upon the 
esteem and affection of those around lier, 
woman learns to regard the smile of appro- 
bation as the charmed spell by which the 
gates of happiness are opened; and to look 
for the frown of contempt as the signal of her 
darkest doom. Trembling between these 
two extremes, there can be no wonder that 
she should study every means to attain the 
one, and avoid the other: and this is what 
the world calls vanity ; while it is in fact an 
ardent, and in some measure a laudabie de- 
sire to do, and to be, tliat which is most 


a RA RE EPEC PP ALIEDL LAIN ILD ETE DEE 
: — s 


gratifying, not to herself but to them; and 
an involuntary shrinking from ail which can 
repel, disgust, or in any way offend, because 
to be the source of dissatisfaction, to give 
pain, or to excite uneasiness, is most*abhor- 
rent to the natural delicacy and generosity 
of her own mind. 

It is on the verge of womanhood that we 
see the female character in its greatest va- 
riety and beauty; while the rich colouring 
of fresh-born fancy, the warm gush of gen- 
uine feeling, and the high aspirations of 
ambitious youth, are yet unsubdued by the 
tyranny of custom, or forced back into the 
bursting heart by the cold hand of expe- 


nn re {Se aL Rage ot ee 
a SOE SRST A LEI CLO LITLE IOS LO TAIT LS NE LEAL aS ee 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


"first creation is still lingering around her, 


‘beauty, her tenderness, and her liability to 
' danger and suffering, is all that the poet can 
desire to inspire his happiest lays. 

| Itisin this stage of her existence, while 


i 
j 


| blended with the melancholy symbols of her | 
‘fall,-in her character and attributes, her 


H 


rience. Woman, fresh as it were from the | them, and therefore they can no longer re- 
garden of Eden, while the loveliness of her pay us for the expenditure of time, and | 


thought, and affection, which in their origi- 
nal ardour they required. We have other 
objects in pursuit, different aims, and hopes, 
and wishes. We have become more con- 
centrated in our feelings, and therefore have 
less disposition to give out the love that once | 
flowed in a tide too rapid and impetuous to | 


| love, her most insidious enemy, folding his | be restrained. But let us pause, and ask, 


| rosy wings, lies shrouded at the bottom of 
| her heart, ready to rush forth on his impe- 
{i tuous flight towards the highest point of 
| happiness, or the lowest depth of wo, that 
;, woman lays hold of friendship as her great- 

‘| est solace and support. Her mind is agi- 
tated with a world of indefinite thoughts 

and feelings which she is unable to commu- 

nicate, because she does not understand 

them. While they are confined within her 


own bosom, she feels like one burdened with ; 


an immense and incalculable load, and 
therefore, she seeks the society of those, 
whose sympathy, arising from a similarity 
of feeling, supplies the want of a common 
medium of communication. Ardently de- 
siring to find in her friend all those qualities 
which she most admires, and prone by na- 
ture to believe whatever she desires, she 
pauses not to enquire whether the choice 
|she makes is not rather the result of her 
own necessities, than a tribute justly paid to 
virtue; and thus the two friends similarly 
circumstanced, and mutually in need of each 
| other, trust most implicitly to the strength and 
durability of their attachment: and happy isit 
for those to whom experience does not teach 
the emptiness of what the world calls friend- 
ship. Ido notsay the worthlessness, because 
that cannot be worthless, which supplies us 
|| with enjoyment for the present, and wisdom 
|| for the fature. 

Nor let the world be quarrelled with be- 
cause its friendships do not always last. 
Formed out of the warm feelings of youth— 
feelings which it would be impossikle to 
carry on with us through life, it is but rea- 
sonable that we should lose our friendships 
as we journey onwards, or that retaining 
them, their character and mode of exhibition 
should be wholly changed; because we 
cease in some measure to feel the want of 


have we found anything to compare in the 
genuine and heartfelt happiness it affords, 
with the social hours of unguarded confi- 
dence—the truth—the tears—the affections 
which belonged to the friendships of our 
early youth ? 

I] am far from from asserting that we may 
not have friends—true and zealous friends. 
—friends who would protect our reputation 
as their own, through every stage of life; 
but they are for the most part such, as hav- 
ing lost their enthusiasm, are become keenly 
observant of our faults, and strict to correct 
them, rather than tender and faithful confi- 
ders in our virtue: such as, wearied with 
our peculiarities, vainly endeavour to make 
us submit to the common rule, and finding 
their endeavours ineffectual, grown nig- 
gardly in their charitable allowance for our 
deviations; not such as looked kindly on our 
foibles, because they made a part of us, and 
felt if we were better, that they could not 
love us more: such as freely enter into our |! 
views and feelings, when in full accordance 
with their own éstablished notions of what is 
praiseworthy and prudent; not such as are 
the last to step forward and tell us we have 
been in error, purely because they would be 
the last to give us pain. Such friends as 
these we should do wisely to keep along 
with us even to the end of life—they are “in 
fact the only true friends, because they are 
true to our best interests: but, oh! they are 
not like the friends who loved us in our 
early youth ! 

T'o return to woman in her girlish days. 
How beautifully has our own fair poetess, 
whose lays, mournful as they are musical, 
remind us of the fabled melody of the dying 
swan, described the particular yearning of 
the heart with which the experienced ob- 
server regards the tender years of woman. 


ee ee ee eee 


————— 


* Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep, 
Aud patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, 
Aud suiless riches, from aifection’s deep, 
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower ! 
And to mike idols, and to fiud them clay, 
Aud to bewail that worship—therefore pray ! 


“ Tfer lot is on you !—to be found antir’d, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspind 
With a true heart of hope, though hope be vain! 
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 
Aud, Oli! to love through all things —therefore pray !” 


Trace her experience to the next stage of 
her existence, and woman is more poetical 
still; because so long as her youth and 
beauty inspire admiration—so long as there 
is any thing to be gained by her favour, she 
is subjected to the deceitful flatteries of 
man, whom she is naturally desirous to 
please, not only as her superior, guide, and 
friend, but as he holds the reins of govern- 
ment, and can therefore deprive her of all 
or most of her pleasures. Asa girl, she 
was deceived only by her own heart, she is 
now deceived by the general aspect of so- 
ciety. Way is made for her to walk forth 
as a queen, and when suppliants bow before 
her, no wonder that they should assume the 
dignity of one, and learn to love the scep- 
tre placed for a moment of mockery in her 
feeble hand. Trusting and sincere herself, 
she dreams not of falsehood, and when told 

that she is beautiful, she lookgin the mirror 
and believes it true. Finding that beauty 
is the only sure title to the admiration of 
that sex, which it is her wish and her inter- 
est to please, she vaiues her personal 
charms as her richest dower; and if she 
smiles not frora the fullness of a glad heart, 
but because smiles are lovely, frowns to pro- 
{| duce effect, or sighs to excite a momentary 
| interest, it is because she has learned in her 
intercourse with society that she must be 
personally lovely to be heloved, and person- 
ally interesting to avoid contempt. © 
4| When we think oi the falsehood practised 
towards women, at that season of life when 
their minds are most capable of receiving 
impressions, and when their intellectual 
/ powers, just arriving at maturity, are most 
| liable to serious and important bias, we can 
| only wonder that there should be any sub- 
stantial virtue found amongst them. Butas 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


121 


awake, so there comes to almost all women, 
atime when their eyes are opened to the 
truth—when their beauty charms not, and 
their step is heard without a welcome— 
when they tune the harp without an au- 
dience, and speak unanswered—when they 
smile without imparting happiness, and 
frown without exciting alarm—when others 
step forward to receive the adulation once 
offered to them, while they are thrust down 
from their imaginary thrones, by the very 
hands which supported them in their ascent. 
Compelled to descend, though sometimes 
gradually, from the state of ideal exaltation 
to which she has been raised, woman— 
weak woman, catches at every slender hold 
that may break her fall. To the last voice 
that speaks flatteringly, she listens with an 
avidity which subjects her to the ridicule of 
the world; while to the last kind hand that 
is held out to her, she clings with a despair- 
ing energy, an ardent gratitude, which per- 
mit her not to perceive its unworthiness. 
Hence follow the absurdities for which she 
is more blamed than pitied, and the rash 
sacrifice of herself, for which she meets 
with little merey from the world. But the 
censor of woman should be a woman her- 
self, to know what it is to have lived in that 
vortex of-falsehood, flattery, and dissipation, 
which surrounds a young and beautiful fe- 
male; and then to pass away into the sullen 
calm of neglect—to have basked in the 
warm and genial atmosphere of real or pre- 
tended affection; and then to “bide the 
pelting of the pitiless storm,” with which 
envy never fails to assail her whose capa- 
bility of loving has outlived her charms—to 
have listened to the voice of adulation, 
breathing her praises like a perpetual con- 
cert all around her; and then to hear no- 
thing but the cold dull language of truth, 
exaggerated into harshness, or sharpened 
into reproof—to have lived a charmed life, 
under the fascination of man’s love, in the 
very centre of all that constitutes ideal happi- 
ness, ministered to on every hand, and feed- 
ing, like the butterfly, upon the flowers of 
life, without a wish ungratified, a thought 
untold, or a tear unpitied; and then upon 
the world’s bleak desert to stand alone! I 


there is a time to sleep, and a time to | repeat, that the censor of woman should be 


_ 
SS a a I a Te a ae Ee ESTOS SS ay 


i 


| 


I = an Se aE al a a A ea LR SE NS RD ET 


oS OO  ~-—-—- Oo rarer SS 


122 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


a woman herself—a woman who has been 
admired, and then neglected. 

We have here spoken only of women 
whose personal charms recommend them to 
general admiration, because it is of these 
alone that the poet delights to sing; yet 
such is the influence of personal admiration 
in checking the growth of moral and intel- 
lectual beauty, and engendering selfishness 
and vanity, that we are inclined to believe 
the deep pathos of the feminine heart is to 
be found in the greatest perfection concealed 
behind the countenance that has seldom at- 
tracted the public gaze. It is in such hearts, 
whose best offerings are rarely estimated 
according to their real value, that disinter- 
ested affection, in all its natural warmth, 
lives and burns for the benefit of the suffer- 
ing or the beloved; that enthusiasm and 
zeal, tempered down by humility, are ever 
ready for the performance of the arduous 
duties of life; and that ambition, if it exists 
at all, is directed to the attainment and dif- 
fusion of more lasting happiness than mere 
beauty can afford. 

In the capacity of a wife we next observe 
the character of woman, and it is here, if 
ever, that she learns the truth—learns what 
is in her own heart, and what are her duties 
to nerself and others. Not that she learns 
all this through the gentle instrumentality 
of affection, but by the moral process of ex- 
perience, which if less congenial to her taste, 
is more forcible in its convictions, and more 
lasting in its effects. In assuming this new 
title, woman is generally removed to a new, 
and often to a distant sphere, where she has 
to take her stand in society upon common 
ground. None within the circle to which 
she is at once admitted, know precisely 
what she has been, and therefore every eye 
is open to see what she is. All the little 
caprices, and peculiarities, nurtured up 
with her bodily growth in the bosom of her 
own family, not only forgiven there, but in- 
dulged from the fond consideration that “ it 
was always her way,” or, “that she was 
always thus,” now stand forth for the full 
discussion, and impartial inspection of the 
many, who, seeing no just reason why such 
should have been her way, and no plausible 
pretext for her being always thus, soon con- 
trive means to convince her, if not: by per- 


rr nce 


sonal information, by the unanimous opinion 
of society, that the more entirely she lays 
aside such peculiarities of character, the 
more she will be respected and valued. Nor 
is this all. She has perhaps a stronger 
corrective within her own household. Her 
husband begins to see with the eyes of the 
world. His vision no longer dazzled by her 
beauty, or his judgment cheated by her 
caresses, he involuntarily, and often without 
sufficient delicacy, points out faults which 
he neither saw, nor believed her capable of 
possessing before. “Why did I marry 2?” 
is the question which every woman, not 
previously disciplined, asks of herself under 
such circumstances, “ why did I marry, if 
not to be loved and cherished as I was in 
my father’s house?” Such are her words, 
for she has not yet learned to understand 
her own heart ; but she means in fact, “ why 
did I marry, if not to be flattered and ad- 
mired as in the days of courtship, when the 
competition for my favour excited unremit- 
ting assiduity in all who sought to win it, 
and who, because they knew my vanity and 


weakness, sought to win it by these means 


alone?” The answer is an obvious one— 
because it is not good for us to go deluded 
to our graves, and therefore merciful means 
have been designed, as various as appro- 
priate to compel us to open our reluctant 
eyes upon the truth; and woman as a wife, 
does open her eyes at last, from the dream 
in which her senses have been lulled, while 
with the tide of conviction, as it rushes in 


upon hernewly-awakened mind, come serious. 


thoughts, and earnest calculations, and 


deeper anxieties; with higher hopes, and 


nobler aims, and better regulated affections 
to counterbalance them. 

As a mother we next behold woman in 
her holiest character—as the nurse of inno- 
cence—as the cherisher of the first principles 
of mind—as the guardian of an immortal 
being who will write upon the records of 
eternity how faithfully she has fulfilled her 
trust. And let it be observed that, in as- 
suming this new and important office, she 
does not necessarily lose any of the/charms 
which have beautified her character before. 
She can still be tender, lovely, delicate, re- 
fined, and cheerful, as when a girl; devoted 
to the happiness of those around her, affec-: 


—— a 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


Besar 


tionate, judicious, dignified, and intellectual, 
as when a wife only; while this new love, 
deep as the very wells of life, mingles with 
the current of her thoughts and feelings, 
giving warmth and intensity to all, without 
impairing the force or the purity of any. 
Yet while her attributes remain the same, 
her being is absorbed in the existence of her 
child. Now more than ever she forgets 
herself, deeming nothing impossible which 
has reference to her own devotedness, and 
its good—computing neither time, nor space, 
nor capability in the single consideration of 
its happiness—regarding neither labour, 
watching, nor weariness, as worthy of a 
thought in comparison with its lightest 
slumber, or its minutest pain. 

If the lave of a mother be considered as 
an instinet which pervades all animated na- 
ture, it is not the less beautiful when exhi- 
bited in the human character, for being dif- 
fused throughout creation ; because it proves 
that the Author of our being, knew that the 
distinetive attributes of humanity would be 
insufficient to support the mother through her 
anxieties, vexations and cares. He knew 
that reason would be making distinctions 
between the worthy and the unworthy, and 
prematurely consigning the supposed repro- 
bate to ruin; that fancy would make selec- 
tions, and doie upon one while it neglected 
another; that caprice would destroy the 
bond of domestic union; and that intellec- 
tual pursuits would oftert take precedence 
of domestic duties. And therefore he pour- 
ed into woman’s heart the same instinct 
which impels the timid bird to risk the last 
extremity of danger for her helpless young. 
Nor let any one think contemptuously of 
this peculiar capability of loving, because 
under the extinct it is shared with the brute. 


It is not a sufficient recommendation to our, 


respect that it comes immediately from the 
hand of our Creator—that we have no 
power to control or subdue it—that it is 
“Strong as death”—and lastly, that it im- 
bues the mind of the mother with equal ten- 
derness for her infirm, or wayward, or un- 
lovely child, as for him who gives early 
promise of personal as well as mental 
beauty 2 But for this wonderful provision 
in human nature, what would become of 
the cripple, the diseased, the petulant or 


123 


the perverse ?. Who would be found to ful- 


fil the hard duties of serving the ungrateful, 
ministering to the dissatisfied, and watching 
over the hopeless? No. There is no in- 
stance in which the providential care of our 
heavenly Father is more beautifully exhi- 
bited than in that of a mother’s love. Wind- 
ing its silken cords alike around every na- 
tural object, whether worthy or unworthy, 
it creates a bond which unkindness cannot 
break. It pursues the wanderer without 
weariness, and supports the feeble without 
fainting. Neither appalled by danger, nor 
hindered by difficulty, it can labour without 
reward, and persevere without hope. “Many 
waters cannot quench” it; and when the 
glory has vanished from the brow of the 
beloved one, when summer friends have 
turned away, and guilt, and misery, and 
disgrace have usurped their place, it steals 
into the soul of the outcast like the sunbeams 
within the cell of the prisoner, lighting the 
darker dungeon of the polluted heart, bring- 
ing along with it fond recollections of past 
happiness, and wooing back to fresh parti- 
cipation in the light and the gladness that 
still remain for the broken and contrite 
spirit. 

If the situation of a wife brings woman to 


‘a right understanding of her own character, 


that of a mother leads to a strict knowledge 
of her own principles. Scarcely is any one 
so depraved as to teach her child what she 
conscientiously believes to be wrong. And 
yet teach it she must, for its “clear pure 
eyes” are fixed upon hers to learn their 
meaning, and its infant accents are inquir- 
ing out the first principles of good and evil. 
How, with such a picture before her, would 
any woman dare to teach what she did not 
implicitly, as well as rationally, and from 
mature examination believe to be true. In 
a few days—hours—nay, moments, that 


child may be a cherub in the courts iG Hea- | 


ven. What if a stain should have been 
upon its wings, and that stain the impress 
of a mother’s hand! or if its earthly life 
should be prolonged, it is the foundation of 
the important future that the mother lays. 
Other governors in after years may take 
upon themselves the tuition of her child, 
and lead him through the paths of academic 
lore, but the early bias—the bent of the 


a a a AE a ASE EE TE IE IT EE ELIT TEL ELE ALTE 


ae al Led o Be ammintees "he see ed eC aetY Menge, 


124 


moral character—the first principles of spi- 
ritual life, will be hers, and hers the lasting 
glory or the lasting shame. 

There is no scene throughout the whole 
range of our observation, more strikingly 
illustrative of intellectual, moral, and even 
physical beauty than that presented by a 
domestic circle, where a mother holds her 
proper place, as the source of tenderness, 
the centre of affection, the bond of social 
union, the founder of each salutary plan, 
the umpire in all contention, and the general 
fountain of cheerfulness, hope, and consola- 
tion. Itis to clear up the unjust suspicion 
that such a mother steps forward; to ward 
off the unmerited blow; to defend the 
wounded spirit from the injury to which it 
would sullenly submit; to encourage the 
hopeless, when thrown back in the competi- 
tion of talent; to point out to those who 
have been defeated, other aims in which 
they may yet succeed; to stand between 
the timid and the danger they dread; and, 
on behalf of each, and all, to make their 
peace with offended authority, promising, 
hoping, and believing, that they will never 
willingly commit the same fault again. 

Even amongst her boys, those wayward 
libertines of nature’s commonwealth, the 
mother may, if she acts judiciously, be both 
valuable and dear; for wild and impetuous 
as they are when they first burst forth from 
the restraints of childhood, and rush on re- 
gardless of every impediment and whole- 
some check, as if to attain in the shortest 
space of time, the greatest possible distance 
from dependence and puerility, they are apt 
to meet with crosses and disappointments 
which plunge them suddenly back into the 
weakness they have been struggling to over- 
come, or rather to conceal; and it is then 
that a mother’s love supplies the balm which 
their wounded feelings want, and provided 
they can mingle respect with their affection, 
they are not ashamed to acknowldege their 
dependence upon it still. 

It may here be observed how much de- 
pends upon the word respect. When the boy 
respeuts his mother, she is associated with 
his highest aspirations, and therefore he has 
\| pride as well as pleasure in her love. But 
| he will not respect her merely because she 
has nursed him when an infant. No. He 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


must find as he gains experience, a perfect 
accordance between the principles of virtue 
and the instruction he first heard from his 
mother’s lips, as well as the rules by which 
her own conduct is regulated. It is this re- 
spect mingled with natural affection, that 
constitutes the strongest and most durable 
bond which is woven in with the life-strings 
of the heart; that draws back the wanderer 
to his home; and is the last, the very last, 
which the reprobate casts off. 

In turning from the contemplation of a 


mother in the midst of her family, to that of 


a mere old woman, we make a melancholy 
descent from important usefulness to neg- 
lected imbecility. Perhaps we have been 
dwelling too much upon what ought to be, 
but the bare mention of an old woman brings 
us down at once to what is. To inquire 
why it should be thus, belongs more to the 
writer on morals than on poetry ; yet so itis 
—that woman who has been cherished in 
her infancy and flattered in her youth, who 
has been exalted to the most honourable 
station which her sex can fill, and who has 
spent the meridian of her life in toils and 
anxieties for the good of others, becomes in 
old age, a mere proverb, and a by-word—a 
warning to the young and the gay of what 
they must expect—a similitude for all that is 
feeble and contemptible—an evidence of the 
destructive power of time—a living emblem 
of decay. 

It is true the mother is a mother still, and 
greatly is it to be feared, that where she 
sinks into a state of total neglect, it is from 
the absence of all feeling of respect in the 
minds of her children; nor are there want- 
ing instances to prove this fact—instances in 
which the want of youthful beauty has been 
more than supplied by the loveliness of a 
mind at peace with all the world, and with 
its God; where the weakness of old age has 
been dignified by the services of a well-spent 
life: and where the wants and wishes of 
second childhood have been soothed by af- 
fection, whose vital principle is gratitude, 
and whose foundation is esteem. But we 


speak of the world, and the things of the 
world as we find them, and we find old wo- 
men so frequently neglected and despised, 
that it becomes a duty, as well as a plea- 
sure, to show, that though bereft of every 


bt TERR Re A 
i . i ne a bul 


rn ee 


RSS 


was sleeping. 


other charm, they may still be poetical—po- 
etical in their recollections, beyond what hu- 
man nature can be in any other state or 
stage of ifs existence. 

It is an unkind propensity that many 
writers have, to make old women poetical 
through the instrumentality of their passions, 
exaggerating them into witches and mon- 
sters of the most repulsive description, and 
that not so much “to point a moral,” as “to 
adorn a tale;” but in such instances the 
writer is indebted to their recollections for 
all the interest which his unnatural exhibi- 
tions excite—to flashes of former tenderness 
shooting through the gloom of despair—to 
bright and glowing associations following in 
the wake of madness—and to once familiar 
images of love and beauty, re-animated by a 
strange paradox, at. the touch of the wand 
of death, and bending in all their early love- 
liness over the brink of the grave. 

Infinite indeed beyond the possibility of 
calculation, must be the recollections and 
associations of her, whose long life, from its 
earliest to its latest period, has been a life of 
feeling—whose experience has been that of 
impressions, rather than events—and whose 
sun goes down amidst the varied and innu- 
merable tints which these impressions have 
given to its atmosphere. Endued with an 
.nexhaustible power of multiplying relative 
ideas, how melancholy must be the situation 
of her who was once beloved and cherished, 
now despised and forsaken—who in her turn 
loved and cherished others, and is now neg- 
lected. If she be a mother—one of those 
fond mothers who expect that mere indul- 
gence is to win the lasting regard of their 
children, what sad thoughts must crowd 
upon her at every fresh instance of unkind- 
ness, and every additional proof that she has 
fallen away from what she was, both in her 
own and others’ estimation. Over the brow 
that now frowns upon her, she perbaps has 
watched withunutterable tenderness through 
the long night when every eye but hers’ 
The lips that now speak to 
her coldly, or answer her with silence when 
she speaks, she has bathed with the welcome 
draught when they were parched and burn- 
ing with contagious fever. The scorn with 


which her humble pretensions are looked 
down upon, arises in the hearts of those for 


THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 


to come. 


tions which surround her path. 


12 


Ou 


whose higher intellectual attainments she 
has made every sacrifice, and exerted every 
faculty. And what if she be unlearned in 
the literature of modern times, she under- 
stands deeply and feelingly the springs of 
affection, and tenderness and sorrow. She 
knows from what source flow the bitterest 
tears, and 


‘“ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 
To have a thankless child.” 


She sees the young glad creatures of 
another generation sporting around her, and 
her thoughts go back to the playmates of 
her childhood—some reduced to the lowest 
state of helplessness or suffering—some 
dead and some forgotten. She hears the 
reluctant answer when she asks a kindness 
of one of the merry group, and she thinks 
of the time when kindness was more freely 
granted her, though far less needed than 
now. She starts at the loud laugh, but can- 
not understand the jest, and no one explains 
it to her listening ear. She loses the thread 
of earnest conversation, and no one restores 
the clue. She sits within the social circle, 
but forms no link in the chain of social union. 


Her thoughts and feelings cannot harmo-- 


nize with those of her juvenile companions, 
and she feels in all its bitterness, that least 
tolerable portion of human experience—what 
it is to be desolate in the midst of society— 
surrounded by kindred and friends, and yet 
alone. 

In looking at the situation of woman 
merely as regards this life, we are struck 
with the system of unfair dealing by which 
her pliable, weak and dependent nature is 
subjected to an infinite variety of suffering, 
and we are ready to exclaim, that of all 
earthly creatures she is the most pitiable. 
And so unquestionably she is, when unen- 
lightened by those higher views which lead 
her hopes away from the disappointments 
of the present world, to the anticipated 
fruition promised to the faithful in the world 
But the whole life of woman, 
when studied with reference to eternity, pre- 
sents a view of the great plan of moral dis- 
cipline mercifully designed to assist her 
right conduct through the trials and tempta- 
In child- 
hood she is necessarily instructed in what 


“4 
| 


————— 


ne eae SS nN” Ae ne 


126 


| 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


belongs to social and domestic duty, and 
here she learns the difficult but important 
task of submitting, and of making her own 
gratification give place to that of others. In 
Pratt she is plunged into a sphere of greater 
|| temptations, and of more intense enjoyments, 
where her experience, embracing the widest 
extremes of pain and pleasure, teaches her 
all the different means to be made use of in 
avoiding or palliating the one, and promot- 
ing the other. As a wife and a mother she 
has an opportunity of acting upon the know- 
ledge thus acquired, and if her practice does 
honour to her theory, it is here that she ob- 
tains an importance, and derives a satisfac- 
tion, which might be dangerous even to a 
disciplined mind, did not age steal on and 
diffuse his sombre colouring over the plea- 
sant pictures to which her affections had 
given too warm a glow, and which her hap- 
| piness had persuaded her to be satisfied with 
contemplating. But this cold, blank me- 
dium intervening between life and eternity 
—between beauty and ashes—between love 
and death, comes to warn her that all she 
has been desiring, is but as the scattering 
f the harvest to be reaped in heaven; that 
all she has been trusting in, is but typical of 
that which endures for ever; and that all 
she has been enjoying, is but a foretaste of 
eternal felicity. 

Let then the aged woman be no longer 
an object of contempt. She is helpless as a 
child; but as a child she may be learning 
the ey awful lesson from ber Heavenly 
Father. Her feeble step is trembling on the 
brink of the grave; but lier hopes may. be 
firmly planted on the better shore which 
lies beyond. Her eye is dim with suffering 
and tears; but her spiritual vision may be 
contemplating the gradual unfolding of the 
gates of eternal rest. Beauty has faded 
eon her form; but angels in the world of 
light may be weaving a wreath of glory for 
her brow. Her lip is silent; but it may be 
only waiting to pour forth celestial strains 
of gratitude and praise. Lowly, and fallen, 
and sad, she sits amongst the living; but 
exalted, purified, and happy, she may arise 
from the dead. Then turn if thou wilt from 
the aged woman in her loneliness, but re- 
member she is not forsaken of her God! 


THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 


In tracing the connexion of poetry with 
subjects most frequently and naturally pre- 
sented to our contemplation, we observe 
how it may be associated with our pursuits, 
so as to give interest to what is familiar, to 
refine what is material, and to heighten 
what is sublime. We now open the Bible, 
and find that poetry as a principle of intel- 
lectual enjoyment derived from association, 
is also diffused through every page of the 
sacred volume, and so diffused, that the 
simplest child, as well as the profoundest 
sage, may feel its presence. This in fact, 
is the great merit of poetry, (a merit» which 
in no other volume but the Bible, can be 
found in perfection,) that it addresses itself 
so immediately to the principles of feeling 
inherent in our nature, as to be intelligible 
to those who have made but little progress 
in the paths of learning, at the same time 
that it presents a source of the highest 
gratification to the scholar and the philoso- 
pher. Let us refer as an example, to the 
first chapter of Genesis: 


In the beginning, God created the heaven and the 
earth. 
And the earth was without form and void; and dark- 


"ness was upon the fice of the deep. And the Spirit of 


God moved upon the face of the waters. 
And God said, Let there be light; aud there was light. 


A child but just grown familiar with the 
words contained in these verses, not only 
understands their meaning here, but feels 
something of their sublimity—something of 
the power and the majesty of the God who 
could create this wonderful world, whose 
Spirit moved upon the face of the waters, 
and who said, Let there be light: and there 
was light! While learned men of all ages 
have agreed, that no possible combination 
of words, could express more clearly and 
powerfully than these, the potency of the 
first operations of almighty power of which 
mankind have any record. 

We have more than once observed that 
poetry must have some reference, either 
uniformly or partially, to our own circum- 
stances, situation, or experience, as well as 
to the more remote and varied conceptions 


of the imagination; and in the Scriptures, 


a 


et a ee 


sy 


—— oe 


a ea. ae 


rs re 


THE POETRY 


we find this fact fully illustrated. Witness 
the frequent recurrence of these simple 
words—and God said. We are not told 
that the mandates of almighty power issued 
forth from the heavens, but simply, chat God 
said: a mode of speech familiar to the least 
cultivated understanding, yet in no danger 
of losing its sublimity as used here, because 
immediately alter, follow those manifesta- 
tions of universal subordination, which give 
us the most forcible idea of the omnipotence 
of Divine will. 

Again, alter the transgression of our first 
parents, when 


in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his 
wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God 
umongst the trees of the garden. 

Aud the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto 
him, Where art thou ? 

Aud he said, f heard thy voice in the garden, and Iwas 
alraid, because I was nuked; and I hid myself. 


OF THE BIBLE. 127 


Am I my brother’s keeper ? is a question 
with which we are too apt to answer the re- 
proaches of conscience, when we have vio- 
lated the most important trust or neglected 
the duties which ought to be the dearest in 
life. And what sufferer under the first in- 


fliction of chastisement, consequent upon | 
his own transgressions, has not given utter- | 
ance to the expressive language—my pun- |} 


ishient is greater than I can bear? Thus 


far this striking passage contains what is fa- | 


/millar and natural to every human being, 


they heard the voice of the Lord God walking — 


| 


but beyond this, yet at the same time con- 
nected with it, it has great power and even 


presence of the Lord. 
The peculiarly emphatic manner in which 
the Lord promises to bless Abraham, 


| . 
say ing— 


Whiat description of shame and abase- | 


ment can be more true to human iature 
than this? But the character of Cain ul 
fords the earliest, the most consistent, and 
pe haps, the most powerlul exemplifications 
of affections and desires perverted from 
their original purity and singleness of pur- 
pose. Cain, the second man who breathed 
upon the newly-created earth, felt all the 
stirrings of envy and jealousy, precisely as 
we feel them at this day, and he 


—— talked with Abel his brother: and it came 
to pass, when they were in the field. that Cain rose up 
against Abel his brother. and slew him. 

And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy 
brother? and he said, | know not: am IT my brother's 
keeper ? 

And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy 
brother’s blood erieth unto me from the ground. 

And now art thon cursed from the earth, which hath 
opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from 
thy hand; 


1 will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that 
curseth thee: and in thee shall all the families of the 
earth be blessed. 


As well as afterwards when— 


—— the Lord came unto Abram in a vision, say- 


| ing, Fear not. Abram: Lam thy shield, and thy exceed- 


ing great reward— 


is comprehensive and full of meaning be- 
yond what more elaborate language could 


possibly convey. And also after the sepa- 


When thou tillest the ground. it shall not henceforth | 


yield nnto thee her strength ; a fugitive and a vagabond 
shalt thon be in the earth. 

And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater 
than f can bear. 


ration from Lot, where the Lord said unto 
Abrabam, 


Lift up now thine eyes, xnd look from the place where 
thon art, northward, and southward, aud eastward and 
Westward: 

For all the land which U.ou seest, to thee will I give 
it, und to thy seed for ever. 

And Twill make thy ced as the dust of the earth: so 
that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall 
thy seed also be numbered. 

Arise, walk through the land in the length of it, and in 
the breadth of it; for | will give if unto thee. 

Shen Abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in 
the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there 


- an altar to the Lord. 


~ Behold. thou hast driven me ont this day from the face | 


of the earth: and from thy face shall Lbe hid; and [shall 
be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall 
come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay 
me. 

And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever 
slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. 
And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him 
should kill him. 

And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord.— 


Here the act of stretching the sight to the 
northward, and soulhward, and eastward, 
ant westward, and 


of it, presents to the mind ideas of space 


and distance, at once simple and sublime ; 


and when we read that whenever the fiith- 


ful patriarch found rest in his wanderings, 


| sublimity, in no instance more so, than || 
where it is said, that Cain went out froin the || 


walking through the | 
land in the length of it, and in the breadth | 


=, 


128 


| he built there an altar to the Lord, our 
| thoughts are led on by a natural transition 
| to our own experience, to ask what record 
| we have left, or could leave in the past, to 
ii prove that the same divine presence was 
with us in our journey through life. 

The story of Hagar is one of great poeti- 
i, cal interest. We pursue the destitute mo- 
ther and her helpless child into the solitude 
of the wilderness, and behold a_ picture 
| which has become proverbial for the utter 


desolation, which it represents. Compelled 

by a stern necessity, with the ultimate good 
| of which she was wholly unacquainted, the 

mother goes forth as she believes, un- 
friended and alone, to trust herself and the 
treasure of her affections to the mercy of the 
‘elements, and the shelter of the pathless 
wilds, unconscious that her peculiar situation 
is made the especial care of the Father of the 
fatherless, and the Protector of the forlorn. 


| 
| 


And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast 
the child under one of the shrubs. 

And she went, and sat her down over against him a 
good way off, as it were a bow-shot; for she said, Let 
me not see the death of the child. And she sat over 
against him, and lift up her voice and wept. 

And God heard the voice of the Jad: and the angel of 
God called to Hagar ont of heaven, and said unto her, 
Whataileth thee, Hagar? Fear not; for God hath heard 
the voice of the lad where he is. 

Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand ; for 
I will make him a great nation. 


And in the following chapter, where 
Abraham, faithful, even to the resigning 
his dearest treasure, goes forth with his son, 
prepared to render him up if the Lord 
should require it at his hand ; 


And Isaac. spake unto Abraham his father and said, 
My father? and he said, Heream I, my son: and he said, 
Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for 


a burnt offering ? 
And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself 
a burnt offering: so they went both of them together. 


How strong must have been the faith of 
| the patriarch at that moment; or if not, how 
agonizing his feelings as a father! But if 
there were any of the natural struggles of 
humanity between his faith and his love, 
, they are sealed to us, by the simple and 
| beautiful conclusion,—so they went both of 
|| them together. 
|| Yet it isnot merely in particular instances, 
|| Such as may be singled out for examples, 
fees 3 


a es Ee ee as 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


that we see and feel the poetry even of the 
historical parts of the Bible. 
accounts of the creation and the deluge, 
handed down to us in language the most 
intelligible and unadorned, present to the 
imagination pictures of sublimity so awful 
and impressive, that it seems not improbable 
we may in some measure have derived 
our ideas of sublimity and power, from 
impressions made by our first reading of 
the Bible. Beside which, we find descrip- 
tions of the desert, and the wilderness, the 
wells of water, and the goodly pastures, of 


the intercourse of angels with the children 


of men, and of the visitations of the Supreme 
Intelligence, if not personally, in the diffe- 
rent manifestations of his power and his 
love—as a voice, and an impulse—all con- 
veyed to us in language as simple as if a 
shepherd spoke of his flocks upon the moun- 
tain—as sublime as if an angel wrote the 
record of the world. 

Nor is the poetry of the Bible by any 


means confined to those passages in which 


the power of the Almighty is exhibited as 
operating upon the infant world. The same 
influence extending over the passions and 
affections of human nature, is described with 
the most touching pathos, and the most im- 
pressive truth. That moving and controll 
ing influence, so frequently spoken of as 
the word of the Lord coming with irresisti- 
ble power upon the instruments of his will, 
is nowhere set before us in a stronger light, 
than in the character of Balaam, when he 
declared that if Balak would give him his 
house full of silver and gold. he could not go 


beyond the word of the Lord his God to do } 
Not even when he stood | 
upon the high place amidst the seven altars | 
with the burning sacrifice, and all the princes | 
of Moab around him, and knew that the ex- | 
press object of his calling was to curse the | 


less or more. 


people whom the most high had blessed ; 


yet here, before the multitudes assembled to | 


hear the confirmation of their hopes, he was 
compelled to acknowledge how. those hopes 
were defeated, saying, 


—— Balak, the king of Moab, hath brought me from |! 


Aram, out of the mountains of the east, saying, Come, 
curse me Jacob, and come, defy me Israel. 

How shall I curse, whom God hath not cursed? or 
how shall I defy, whom the Lord hath not defied ? 

For from the top of the rocks 1 see him, and from the 


The separate 


THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 


') hills 1 behold him: Jo, the people shall dwell alone, and 


shall not be reckoned among the nations. 

Who can count the dust of Jacob, and the number of 
the fourth part of Israel?) Let me die the death of the 
rizhteous, and let my last end be like his! 

And Balak said unto Balaam, What hast thou done 
unto me? LTtook thee to curse mine enemies, and, be- 
hold, thou hast blessed them altogether. 

And be answered and said, Must I not take heed to 
speak that which the Lord hath put into my mouth? 


Although Balaam knew that by obeying 
the word of the Lord he was sacrificing the 
favour of his master, who had promised to 
promote him to honour, yet again, when 
brought to the top of another mountain with 


the vain hope of escaping from the power 


of Omnipotence—when seven altars were 
again built, and seven bullocks and seven 
rams sacrificed, the people of Moab were 
again told, that the Lord 

hath not beheld iniquity in Jacob, neither hath he 


seen perverseness in Israel: the Lord his God is with 
him, and the shout ofa king is among them. 


Disappointed and defeated, Balak now 
very naturally exclaims, Neither curse them 
at all, nor bless them at all. Yet still will- 
ing to try for the third and last time, the 
power of man against his Maker, he leads 
Balaam to the top of Mount Peor, where 
the same ceremonial gives the sanction of 
truth, and the majesty of power, to the words 
of the prophet; and here it is that he pours 
forth for the last time, a blessing, still richer 
and more unlimited than before, beginning 
with the beautiful and poetic language, 


How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy taberna- 
cles, O Israel! 

As the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens by the 
tiver’s side, as the trees of lign aloes which the Lord hath 
pliuuted, and as cedar trees beside the waters. 


To those wno are best acquainted with 
the poetry of the human heart, the sad his- 
tory of Jephthah and his daughter affords 
particular interest, told as itis in language 
never yet exceeded for simplicity and gen- 
uine beauty, by any of the numerous wri- 
ters who have given us, both in prose and 
verse, imaginary details of this melancholy 
story. 


And Jephthah vowed a vow unto the Lord, and said, 
if thou shalt without fail deliver the children of Ammon 


into mine hands. 
Then it shall be, that whatsoever cometh forth of the 


doors of my house to meet me, when I return in peace 


9 


listines trembled, after rending the lion, and 


129 


from the children of Ammon, shall surely be the Lord’s, 
and I will offer it up for a burnt-offering. 

So Jephthah passed over unto the children of Ammon 
to fight against them; and the Lord delivered them into 
his hands. 

And he smote them from Aroer, even till thou come 
to Minnith, even twenty cities, and unto the plain of the 
vineyards, with a very great slaughter. Thus the child- 
ren of Ammon were subdued befure the children of 
Israel. 

And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and be- 
hold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels 
and with dances: and she was his only child; beside 
her he had neither son nor daughter. 

And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent 
his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! Thou hast 
brought me very low, and thou art one of them that 
trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, 
and I cannot go back. 

And she said unto him, My father, if thou hast opened 
thy mouth unto the Lord, do to me according to that 
which hath proceeded ont of thy mouth; forasmuch as 
the Lord hath taken vengeance for thee of thine enemies, 
even of the children of Ammon. 


The character of Samson displays in a 
powerful manner that combination of strength 
and weakness, which too frequently pro- 
duces the most fatal and irrevocable ruin. 
It is a character well worthy of our greatest 
poet, yet one, to the interest of which, his 
genius could add nothing, and (what is say- 
ing much) could expatiate upon without 
taking anything away. We first behold 
Samson as the man before whom the Phi- 


scattering thousands with a single arm, 
stooping to the dalliance of a false and 
worthless woman—three times deceived— 
wantonly and wickedly deceived, yet trust- 
ing her at last with the secret of his strength. 
Next, betrayed into the hands of his enemies, 
we find him, 


“ Kyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves.” 


And lastly, as if this punishment were not 
sufficient, he is Jed forth and placed between 
the pillars in the public hall of entertain- 
ment, to make sport at the festival of his 
enemies, rejoicing in his weakness and his 
bonds; where the indignation of his uncon- 
querable soul finally nerves him for that 
tremendous act of retributive vengeance, 
by which the death of Samson is commem- 
orated. 

The story of Ruth is familiar in its touch- 
ing pathos, to every feeling heart; as well 
as intrinsically beautiful to every poetic 
mind. What for instance can exceed the 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


a Sienna aslg teense 


exhibited in that of Saul. 


description of the separation of the. sisters, 
when their mother entreats them to leave 


her. 


And they lifted up their voice and wept again: and 
Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto 
her. 

And she said, Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back 
unto her people, and unto her gods: return thou after 
thy sister-in-law. 

And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to re- 
turn from following after thee: for whither thou goest, 


I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy peo- ° 


ple shall be my people, and thy God my God: 

Where thou diest, will I die, and there will | be buried : 
the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death 
part thee and me. 


In speaking of poetry as it relates to the 
passions, and tothe minor impulses, and 
finer sensibilities of human nature, as well 
as to the scenes and circumstances most 
calculated for their developement, we have 
no hesitation in pointing out the life and 
character of Saul, as one, abounding per- 
haps more than any other in the Scriptures, 
with poetical interest. The book of Job is 
one of poetry itself, yet the character of the 
sublime sufferer does not afford the variety 
Prostrate in the 
dust of the earth, and still holding commu- 
nion with the Deity, we behold him as an 
isolated being, struck out from the common 
lot, and set apart for a particular dispensa- 
tion, whose severity was sufficient to fill a 
more human heart with bitterness. | But the 
experience of Saul is that of a more ordi- 
nary man, with whom we can fully sympa- 
thize, as we go along. with him through 
those great national and social changes, by 
which men of common mould are often 
placed before the world in a point of view 
so striking and important, as to entitle them 
to the name of great. We recognize in the 
king of Israel the same motives and feelings 
by which men in all ages have been influ- 
enced; yet while we speak of him as a less 
extraordinary character than Job, it is only 
so far as the features of his character are 
more intelligible and familiar to our obser- 
vation and experience; for every thing 
recorded of him in his eventful history, 
bespeaks a mind imbued at the same time 
with power and sensibility, and a soul capa- 
ble of the extremes both of good and evil. 

We behold him first a simple youth—a 
choice young man, and a goodly, so uncon- 


scious of the high honour which awaited 
him, that when Samuel emphatically asks, 
“Is not the desire of the people on thee, and 
on thy father’s house?” he answers with 
perfect humility and simplicity of heart, 

Am not I a Benjamite, of the smallest of the tribes of 
Israe]? and my family the least of all the families of the 


tribe of Benjamin? wherefore then speukest thou so to 
me? 


Yet, 


it was so, that when he had turned his back to 
go from Samuel, God gave him anather heart. 


We have no reason to suppose an ambi- 
tious heart, but rather a heart enlarged with 
a conception of the favour of the Almighty, 
and filled with the spirit of prophecy, and 
with all heavenward aspirations; so that, 
under a sense of the responsibility of send- 
ing forth as a king, an edict among his 
people, he built an altar unto the Lord, and 
asked counsel of God before he went down 
after the Philistines. Thus far we find him 
obedient as a man, and faithful as a sove- 
reign; for his heart was yet uncorrupted by 
the temptations which surround a throne: 
but the power of leading and governing 
others, soon. produced its natural and fre- | 
quent consequence—a disposition to be 
guided by his own inclination, and to resist |} 
all higher authority. Thus, when com- | 


-manded to go and smite the Amalekites, 


and utterly to slay both men and women, 
infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel || 
and ass, he spared Agag and the best of |{ 
the sheep, and of the oxen, and of the fat- || 
lings, and of the lambs, and all that was 
good, and would not utterly destroy them ; 
thereby transgressing the great paramount 
law, no less necessary for the right gov- |f 
ernment of an infant mind, than for an || 
infant world—the law of obedience. | 


Then came the word of the Lord unto Samuel, saying, 

It repenteth me that I have setup San] to be king: for 
he is turned back from following me, and hath not per: 
formed my commandments. And it grieved Samuel; 
and he cried unto the Lord all night. 

And when Samuel rose up early to meet Saul in the 
morning, it was told Samuel, saying, Saul came. up. to 
Carmel, and, behold, he set him up a place. and is gone 
about, and passed on, and gone down to Gilgal. 

And Samnel came to San): and Saul said unto him, 
Blessed be thon of the Lord: I have performed the com- 
mandment of the Lord. 

And Samuel said, What meaneth then this bleating of 


| degradation. 


THE PORTRY OF THE BIBLE. 


the sheep in mine ears, and the lowing of the oxen which — 


I hear? : 
And Saul said, They have brought them from the 
Amalekites: for the people spared the best of the sheep 


Then Samuel said unto Saul, Stay, and 1 will tell thee 
what the Lord hath said to me this ufght. 
unto him, Say on. 


And Samuel said, When thou wast little in thine own 
sight, wast thou not made the head of the tribes of Israel, 


and the Lord anointed thee king over Israel? 


And the Lord sent thee on a journey, and said, Go-and 
utterly destroy the sinners of the Amalekites, and fight | 


against them until they be consumed. 


Wherefore then didst thou not obey the voice of the | 
Lord, but didst fly apon the spoil, and didst evil in the | 


sight of the Lord ? 


After this reproof from Samuel, Saul again. 
| endeavours to justify himsell’by proving that | 
| the reservation he ha.l made was solely for 
| the purpose of sacrificing to the Lord; when 
| the prophet emphatically asks, 
Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings and 

| sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? 


| to obey is better than sacrifice, and to learken than the 
| fat of rams. 


To Samuel, who seems hitherto to have 


|| stood in the capacity of an intercessor be- | 
| tween him and the Divine Majesty, Saul 
} now humbles himsel!} and entreats that he 


will pardon his sin, and turn again with him, 


|] that he may worship the Lord. And when 
| still rejected, he humbles himself yet more, 
|) and prays (Oh! how naturally!) that at_ 
| least the prophet will honor him before the- 
people, that the world may not witness his_ 
And now Samuel yields, but - 


we are told soonafter that he came no more 


| to see Saul until the day of his death; never- 
\| theless he mourned for him, and the Lord | 
| repented that he had made Saul king over | 

| Israel. 


And the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul, and an 


;} evil spirit from the Lord troubled him. 


How descriptive is this passage of this. 


gradual falling away from Divine favour, 


which sometimes darkens and weighs down | 


the soul, filling it with gloomy thoughts, and 


| sad forebodings, long before the melancholy | 
change is perceptible in the outward charac- | 
And how strikingly does it illustrate 
the hidden, and to us mysterious workings | 
of the great plan of Providence, that the fu-. 
ture king of Israel, already secretly appointed | 


ter. 


by Divine commission, should be the min- 


And he said | 


Behold, 


and of the oxen, to sacrifice unto the Lord thy God; ani | 
the rest we have utterly destroyed. 


| afraid of David ; and he became his eneny 
| continually: yet once more at the earnest. 


{ and he smote the javelin into the wall: and David fled, | 


| went forth to pursue the chosen of the Lord, 


ee eeeeEEooEeEeEoEoToeoToTOoooeoooooEooEEeE 


fought with the Philistines, and slew them with a great | 


strel chosen to come and charm away, with | 


the melody of his harp, the evil spirit from | 
the mind of his predecessor in authority ; 
and that Saul should arise relieved and re- 
freshed by the music of the instrument of his _ 
future torment. For it is not long before envy 
enters into his heart, adding its envenomed 


stings to the anguish he is already enduring. | 
He hears the song of the dancing women as | 


they meet him with tabrets and with joy, 
answering one another, and saying, that 
Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his 
tens of thousands, and he asks, What can 
David have more but the kingdom? Yet 
alter this he promises him his daughter in 
marriage, but quickly repenting him of the 
purposed honour, bestows her upon another. 
Again, hoping she may be a snare to him, 
he offers him his second daughter; and then 
we are told that he saw and knew that the 
Lord was with David, and that his daughter 
loved him. And Saul was yet the more 


intercession of Jonathan, Saul consents to - 
receive David again into his presence. 


And Jonathan calied David, and Jonathan shewed him 
all those things. And Jonathan brought David to Saul, 
and he was in his presence as in times past. 

And there was war again: and David went out and | 


slaughter; and they fled from him 

And the evil spirit from the Lord was upon Saul, as he 
sit in his house with his javelin in his hand: and David 
played with his hand. 

And Saul sought to smite David even to the wall with | 
the javelin; but he slipped away out of Saul’s presence, | 


and escaped that night. 


The struggle was now passea. The ear- | 
ly tendency of the soul of the king to seek, 
and to do good, was finally subdued, and he | 


as an open and avowed enemy; yet, en-— 
vouring to justify himself by proving that 
David had first risen up against him, he ap- 
peals to his servants, and fully conscious 
that his cause would not stand the test of 
impartial examination, he appeals to their 
interest, and to their compassion, rather than 
to their judgment. 


Hlear now, ye Benjamites ; will the son of Jesse give 
every one of you fields and vineyards, and make you all 
captains of thousands, aud captains of hundreds ; 

That all of you have conspired against me, und there 


ee 
ne 


| 
| 


pegeramentuanesny acon es aa cc DTRERE GE SELL SRT SESERASLMA ES oe eos eee ae : « = ! F 
132 | THE POETRY OF LIFE. ~ ‘| 


is none that sheweth me that my son hath madea league 
with the son of Jesse, and there is none of you that is 
sorry for me, or sheweth unto me that my son hath 
stirred up my servant against me, to lie in wait, as at 
this day ? 


Filled with rancour and jealousy, height- 
ened by the rising fame and influence of 
David, Saul pursues him to the wilderness 
of Engedi, where we meet with a remark- 
able instance of forbearance on the part of a 
persecuted man. With the skirt of the 
king’s robe in his hand, David shows him 
that he had advanced so near his person 
as to have been able with the same facility 
to destroy his life, but that he spared him 
from reverence for the Lord’s anointed. 
When, struck at once with a sense of his 
own recent danger, with the honourable 
dealing of one whom he believed to be an 
enemy, with the sight of the man he had 
once loved—loved in the days when his 
heart was not as now, seared with the 
worst of passions; and perhaps touched 
more than all with the tones of the voice 
which in those happier days had been his 
music, Saul exclaims, Js this thy voice, my 
son David? and then he lifted wp his voice 
and wept. After this burst of tenderness, 
his heart is opened to express the full sense 
he had of David’s superiority, and the strong 
feeling ever present to his mind, that he 
should one day be compelled to resign the 
reins of government into his hands. 


And he said to David, Thou art more righteous than 
I: for thou hast rewarded me good, whereas I have re- 
warced thee evil. 

And now, behold, I know well that thou shalt surely 
be king, and that the kingdom of Israel shall be esta- 
blished in thine hand. 


A second instance of a similar kind oc- 
curs, in which Saul appears to be struck, 
though less forcibly, with the generosity of 
David, whom he still addresses as his son, 
and of whom he again prophesies, that he 
“shall do great things, and shall still pre- 
vail.” But these transient ebullitions of 
former feeling pass away before the gather- 
ing influence of David, and Saul humbles 
himself to seek consolation under his falling 
fortunes from the last miserable and barren 
resource of the utterly destitute in soul. 
Samuel is dead, and though the king had, 
from the impulse of his better judgment, 


7 | 
put away all who had familiar spirits, and | 
wizards, out of the land, he stoops to | 


‘ 


guise himself, and to go at midnight to cast 
his forlorn hopes upon the enchantments of 
the witch of Endor 


And he said to the woman, I pray thee, divine unto me 
by a familiar spirit, and bring up him, whom I shall name 
unto thee. 

And the woman said unto him, Behold, thou knowest 
what Saul hath done, how he hath cut off those that have 
familiar spirits, and the wizards. out of the land: where- 
fore then layest thou a snare for my life, to cause me to 
die? 

And Saul sware to her by the Lord, saying, As the 
Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee 
for this thing. 

Then said the woman, Whom shall 1 bring up nnto 
thee? And he said, Bring me up Samuel. 

And when the woman saw Samuel. she cried with a 
loud voice; and the woman spake to Sau], saying, Why 
hast thou deceived me? for thou art Saul. 

And the king said unto her, Be not afraid: for what 
sawest thou? And the woman said unto Saul, I saw 
gods ascending out of the earth 

And he said unto her, What form is he of? And she ], 
said, An old man cometh up; and he is covered with a 
mantle. And Sanl perceived that it was Samuel, and he 
stooped with his face to the ground, and bowed himself. 

And Samuel said to Saul, Why hast thou disquieted 
me, to bring me up? And San] answered, Tam sore dis- 
tressed: for the Philistines make war against me. and 
God is departed from me, and angswereth me fio more, 
neither by prophets, nor by dreams: therefore I have 
cilled thee, that thou mayst make known unto me what 
T shall do. 

Then said Samnel, Wherefore then dost thon ask of 
me, seeing the Lord is departed from thee, and is become 
thine enemy? Or 

And the Lord hath done to him as he spake by me: 
for the Lord hath rent the kingdom out of thine hand, 
and given it to thy neighbour, even to David : 

Because thou obeyedst not the voice of the Lord. nor 
executedst his fierce wrath upon Amalek, therefore hath 
the Lord done this thing unto thee this day. 

Moreover the Lord will also deliver Israel with thee 
into the hand of the Philistines: and to-morrow shalt 
thou and thy sons be with me: the Lord also shall de- 
liver the host of Israel into the hand of the Philistines. 

Then Saul fell straightway all along on the earth, and 
was sore afraid, because of the words of Samnel: and 
there was no strength in him; for he had eaten no bread 
all the day, nor all the night. 


How affecting is this picture of the abject 
state of a fallen king—fallen not so much 
from earthly honour, as from the counte- 
nance and protection of the King of kings. 
Even Saul, the envious persecutor of his 
unoffending successor, becomes an object of 
compassion, when he answers to the ques- 
tion of Samuel, “ Why hast thou disquieted 
me?” “Because I am, sore distressed.” 
And when it is said that “he stooped with 
his face to the ground,” and finally “fell 


ng ERs... eee SS ee ed 


2 ee SE eS : —— a 
a 


nn EID EnEIEnEESE NEESER 


= 


THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 


133 


straightway all along upon the earth,” there 
camscarcely be a stronger description of to- 
tal abandonment of soul under a deep sense 
of the overwhelming might of Omnipotence ; 
as well as of a melancholy presage of the 
entire uprooting of all that he had trusted 
and gloried in. Yet scarcely trusted in, for 
he had greatly feared the thing which was 
about to come upon him, and which the aw- 
ful voice of the prophet risen from the dead 
had solemnly confirmed. 

The doom of the king of Israel was now 
sealed. And when the Philistines arose and 
fought against Israel, and “followed hard 
after Saul and his sons, and the Philistines 
slew Jonathan, and Abinadab, and Melchi- 
shua, Saul’s sons ;” 


And the battle went sore against Saul, and the archers 
hit him; and he was sore wounded of the archers ; 

Then said San] unto his armour-bearer, Draw thy 
sword, and thrust me through therewith; lest these un- 
circumcised come and thrust me through, and abuse me. 
But his armour-beurer would not; for he was sore afraid. 
Therefore Saul took a sword, and fell upon it. 


Through the whole of this history, we 
trace the same strong and natural develope- 
ment of feeling, which all our most talented 
authors-aspire to in their descriptions, and 
upon which they chiefly depend for the po- 
etical interest of what they describe. But 
while in the character of Saul are forcibly 
portrayed the fatal workings of the passions 
of envy, jealousy, and remorse, accompanied 
with many of those delicate shades, which 
denote the latest yearnings after good, and 
the earliest tendency to evil, the character 
of Davyjd is scarcely less poetical in its 
strength, and beauty, and consistency, va- 
ried by a few instances of natural weakness, 
producing their own atonement in the humi- 
liation, the abasement, the agony of mind, and 
the final welcome back to Divine love, by 
which they are succeeded. 

The attachment between David and Jona- 
than is perhaps the most beautiful and per- 
fect instance of true friendship which we 
have on record. As a shepherd, and a 
prince, their first covenant is made. 


Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because 
he Joved him as his own soul. 

And Jonathan stripped off the robe that was upon him, 
and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his 
sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle. 


And we see the same covenant binding 
them together through all the changes of 
their after life ; for Jonathan, who loved the 
simple minstrel boy that charmed away the 
evil spirit from his father, ki cw not the envy 
of Saul when that minstrel lecame a man 
of war, and multitudes were gathered be- 
neath his banner. And David, persecuted 
as he was by the father of his friend, never 
once betrayed towards him or his, the bitter- 
ness of an injured spirit, but followed him 
even to his death, with the reverence due to 
the Lord’s anointed. It is then that he pours 
forth, both for Saul and Jonav~an, that beau- 
tiful and affecting lamentation, which no 
language can exceed in poetry and pathos. 


The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: 
how are the mighty fallen! 

Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of As- 
kelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest 
the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. 

Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither 
let there be rain, upon you, nor flelds of offerings: for 
there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the 
shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with 
oil. 

From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, 
the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of 
Saul returned not empty. 

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their 
lives, and in death they were not divided: they were 
swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. 

Ye daugiters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed 
you in Jet, with other delights, who put on orna- 
ments\. (gold von your apparel. 


| How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! 


O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. 

I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very 
pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was 
wonderful, passing the love of woman. 

How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war 
perished! 


There is an instance of maternal aflec- 
tion recorded in the 21st chapter of the same 
book, which in speaking of the strength of 
human passions ought not to be passed over 
without notice. It is where David was com- 
manded to destroy the remnant of the house 
of Saul, and seven sons of the late king 
were delivered up into his hand, but he 
spared Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan, 
because of the Lord’s oath that was between 
David and Jonathan. ; 


But the king took the two sons of Rizpah, the daughter 
of Aiah, whom she bare unto Saul, Armoni and Mephi- 
bosheth; and the five sons of Michal, the daughter of 
Saul, whom she brought up for Adriel, the son of Bar- 
zillai, the Meholathite ; 


$$. 


| love than this. 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeon- 


| ites, and they hanged them in the hill before the Lord: 


and they fell all seven together, and were put to death 
in the days of harvest, in the first days, in the beginning 
of barley harvest. 

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and 
spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of 
harvest, until water dropped upon them out of heaven, 
and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them 
by day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 


Of all the instances, imaginary or real, 
handed down to us by fable or history, we 
have not one of a more intense and devoted 
A solitary woman seated 
upon a rock, watching the wasting bodies 
of her two dead sons, day after day—night 
after night—with no shelter but the open 
canopy of heaven—no repose but the sack- 
cloth spread upon the: rock, an emblem of 
her own abasement—no hope but to see the 
last—the very last of all she loved—no con- 
solation but her constancy—no support but 
the magnitude of her own incommunicable 
grief. It was the beginning of harvest, and 
the feet of a busy multitude might come and 
go beneath that solitary rock—the shout of 
gladness—the acclamation of the joyous 
reapers might be heard from the valleys 
below; but there she sat in her loneliness 
upon the dismal watch tower of death, 
faithful to her silent and sacred trust, suffer- 
ing neither the birds of the air to rest on 
them by day, nor the beasts of the field by 
night. 

The whole life of the prophet Elijah, 
especially his last appearance upon earth, 
is remarkable for an interest whose Teast 
recommendation is that of being highly po- 
etical ; for deeply as this subject has occu- 
pied the heart of the writer, it must be 
confessed that in pursuing it through the 
Holy Scriptures, and tracing its connexion 
with the revelation of those sacred truths 
upon which depend our hopes of eternity, 
the consideration of poetry loses much of 
its importance by comparison, and the task 
of the writer becomes like that of one who 
culls with adventurous hand, the flowers 
that grow around the fountain of life. This 
view of the subject would of itself be suffi- 
cient to prevent any near approach to the 
doctrinal parts of the Scriptures, whose 
strictly spiritual import, though still couched 
in language both figurative and poetical in 
the extreme, places them above the reach 


of ordinary discussion, in a sphere more 
exclusively appropriated to considerations 
of infinitely greater importance. 

Some further progress may however be 
justifiable in the course we hope we have 
hitherto pursued without profaning what is 
pure, or violating what is sacred; and we 
consequently pause at that passage in the 
book of Kings, in which the prophet Elijah 
is described as escaping from his enemies 
into the solitude of the wilderness, where, 
casting himself upon the ground, he ex- 
claims, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take 
away my life, for I am not better than my 
fathers.” 

Such were the human feelings contending 
for the empire of his mind, that he was 
almost weary of the service of his Divine 
Master, accompanied as it was with disap- 
pointment, hatred, and persecution. How 
simple, and yet how admirably adapted to 
his peculiar state, are the means here adopted 
to bring him again to a sense of the super- 
intending care and love of his heavenly 
Father. 


And as he lay and slept under a juniper tree, behold, 
then an angel touched him, and said unto him, Arise and 
eat. 

And he looked, and behold, there was a cake baken on 
the coals, and a cruse of water at his head. And he did 
eat and drink, and Jaid him down again. 

And the angel of the Lord came again a second time, 
and touched him, and said, Arise and eat; because the 
journey is too great for thee. 

And he arose, and did eat and drink, and went in the 
strength of that meat forty days and forty nights unto 
Horeb the mount of God. 

And he came thither unto a cave, and lodged there, 
and behold}the word of the Lord came unto him, What 
dost thou here, Elijah? 

And he said, I have been very jealous for the-Lord God 
of hosts: for the children of Israel have forsaken thy 
covenant, thrown down thine altars, and slain thy pro- 
phets with the sword; and I, even I only, am left; and 
they seek my life, to take it away. 

And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount be- 
fore the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, anda 
great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in 
pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not 
in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the 
Lord was not in the earthquake. 

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not 
in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 

And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped 
his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the en- 
tering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice 
unto him, and said, What dost thou here, Elijah ? 


Where, through the wide range of modern 
literature can we find a passage to be com- 
pared with this, for the conciseness and sim- 


ee clement 


| dren of Israel, 


plicity with which ideas the most sublime 


and elevated are conveyed into the mind? 
The prophet had been looking, (perhaps 
impatiently) for some striking exhibition of 
Almighty power amongst the children of 
men, forgetful of the secret springs of action, 
and action itself being alike under the con- 
trol of Omnipotence; when his faith and his 
confidence are reanimated by witnessing 
one of those tremendous and awful convul- 
sions of the elements, by which forests are 
uprooted, and rocks overthrown, accompa- 
nied with the internal conviction that the 
immediate presence of the Lord was not 
there. Again, an earthquake shakes the 
world; but the Lord is not in the earth- 
quake ; after the earthquake a fire, but the 
Lord is not in the fire. No; though such 
are the open manifestations of his power, 
by which he makes the nations tremble, yet 
the prophet was convinced that the war of 
the elements might exist, and the destruction 
of the earth ensue, without that sensible 
presence of the Almighty, for the want of 
which his soul was fainting. At last, after 
the fire, there came a still small voice, and 
Elijah felt that the Lord was near, that he 
was not forsaken, and that, independent of 
the outward symbols of illimitable power, 
the Creator of the world is able to carry on 
his operations in the mind of man, by the 
desire of the heart, the silent thought, or the 
secret impulse directed towards the accom- 
plishment of his inscrutable designs. 

A great proportion of the Holy Scriptures 
is not only poetical, but real poetry. Under 
this head the song of Moses, and “the chil- 
is the first instance that 
occurs. In this song, the passage of the 
children of Israel through the Red Sea, the 
overthrow of Pharaoh’s host, and the won- 
derful dealing of the Lord with his chosen 
people, are commemorated in language 
highly figurative and sublime. 


The Lord is my strength and song, and he is become 
my salvation: he is my God, and I will prepare him an 
habitation; my father’s God, and I will exalt him. 


Thy right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power: 


thy right and, O Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. 
And in the greatness of thy excellency hast thou over- 
thrown them that rose up against thee: thou sentest 
forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. 
And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were 
gathered together, the floods stood upright as an heap, 
and the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea. 


THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 


Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? who || 
is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing 
wonders ? 

Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, the earth swal- 
lowed them. 

Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which 
thou hast redeemed: thou hast guided them in thy 
strength unto thy holy habitation. 

Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in the moun- 
tain of thine inheritance, in the place, O Lord, which 
thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the sanctuary, O | 
Lord, which thy hands have established. 

The Lord shall reign for ever and ever. 


When Moses pours forth before the peo- 
ple his last public testimony to the mercy, 
the might, and the vengeance of the Al- 
mighty, it is in the same powerful strain of 
poetical fervour. 


Give ear, O ye heavens, and I will speak; and hear, O 
earth, the words of my mouth. 

Do ye thus requite the Lord, O foolish people and un- 
wise? Is: not he thy father that hath brought thee? 
Hath he not made thee, and established thee ? 

Remember the days of old, consider the years of many | 
generations: ask thy father, and he will shew thee, thy 
elders, and they will tell thee. 

When the Most High divided to the nations their in- 
heritance, when he separated the sons of Adam, he set 
the bounds of the people according to the number of the 
children of Israel. 

For the Lord’s portion is his people; Jacob is the ef 
of his inheritance. 

He found him in a desert land, and in the waste how 
ing wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he 
kept him as the apple of his eye. 

As an eagle etirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her 
young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, bear- 
eth them on her wings: 

So the Lord alone did lead him, and there was no 
strange God with him. 

To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their 
foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity 
is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them 
make haste. 

For the Lord shall judge his people, and repent him- 
self for his servants, when he seeth thut their power is 
gone, and there is none shut up, or left. 

And he shall say, Where are their gods, their rock in 
whom they trusted ? 


And again, the last blessing of Moses-is 
delivered in language full of poetry. 


And he said, The Lord came from Sinai, and rose up 
from Seir unto them; he shined forth from mount Pa- 
ran, and he came with ten thousands of saints: from hia 
right hand went a flery Jaw unto them. 

And of Joseph he said, Blessed of the Lord be his land, 
for the precious things of heaven, for the dew, and for 
the deep that coucheth beneath, 

And for the precious fruits brought forth by the sun, 
and for the precious things put forth by the moon, 

And for the chief things of the ancient mountains, and 
for the precious things of the lasting hills. ; 

There is none like unto the God of Jeshurun, who | 
rideth upon the heaven in thy help, and in his excellency 
on the sky. 


136 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


RS I a a a a a a TS RRR aa a aa 


The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the 
everlasting arms, and he shall thrust out the enemy from 
before thee; and shall say, Destroy them. 

| Israel then shall dwell in safety alone: the fountain of 
Jacob shall be upon a land of corn and wine, also his 
heavens shall drop down dew. 

Happy art thou, O Israel: who is like unto thee, O 
| people saved by the Lord, the shield of thy help, and 
who is the sword of thy excellency! and thine enemies 
shall be fonnd liars unto thee; and thou shalt tread upon 
their high places. 


These two examples are, however, infe- 
|| Tior to the song of Deborah and Barak, for 
the high tone of metaphorical ornament, 
characterizing the whole of that incompar- 
able specimen of poetical imagery, which 
immediately strikes us with the idea of its 
having been the archetype of some of the 
finest passages in Ossian, as well as the ori- 
ginal from which many of our own notions 
of the beauty and melody of language are 
derived. 


Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when 
the people willingly offered themselves. 

Hear, O ye kings; give ear, O ye princes; I, even I, 
will sing unto the Lord; I will sing praise to the Lord 
God of Israel. 

Lord, when thou wentest out of Seir, when thou 
marchedst out of the field of Edom, the earth trembled, 
and the heavens dropped, the clouds also dropped water. 

The mountains melted from before the Lord, even that 
Sinai from before the Lord God of Israel. 

And the princes of Issachar were with Deborah; even 
Issachar, and also Barak: he was sent on foot into the 
valley. For the divisions of Reuben there were great 
thoughts of heart. 

Why abodest thou among the sheepfolds, to hear the 
bleatings of the flocks? For the divisions of Reuben 
there were great searchings of heart. . 

Gilead abode beyond Jordan: and why did Dan re- 
main in ships? Asher continued on the sea-shore, and 
abode in his breaches. 

Zebulun and Naphtali were a people that jeoparded 
their lives unto the death in the high places of the field. 

The kings came and fought; then fought the kings of 
Canaan in Taanach by the waters of Megiddo: they 
took no gain ef money. 

They fought from heaven; the stars in their courses 
fought against Sisera. 

The river of Kishon swept them away, that ancient 
river, the river Kishon. O my soul, thou hast trodden 
down strength. 


Curse ye Meroz, (said the angel of the Lord,) curse ye 
bitterly the inhabitants thereof; because they came not 
to the help of the Lord, to the help of the Lord against 
the mighty. 

Blessed above women shall Jael the wife of Heber the 
Kenite be; blessed shall she be above women in the tent. 

She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the 
workman’s haminer: and with the hammer she smote 
Sisera; she smote off his head, when she had pierced 
and stricken through his temples. 

At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet 
a tie he fell; where he bowed, there he fell down 

ead, ’ 


The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and 
cried through the lattice, Why is his chariot so long in 
coming ? why tarry the wheels of his chariots? 

Her wise ladies answered her, yea, she returned an- 
swer fo herself: 

Have they not sped ? have they not divided the prey ; 
to every man a damsel or two? to Sisera a prey of divers 
colours, a prey of divers colours of needle-work, of divers 
colours of needle-work on both sides, meet for the necks 
of them that take the spoil? 

So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord: but let them 
that love him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his 
might. 


Were it possible to take away the poetry 
from these passages, and leave their sense 
entire, we should then see how much they 
owe in intellectual beauty, to that peculiar 
style of language, which adorns the whole 
of the Scriptures. lt would, however, be a 
vain attempt to remove one, and leave the 
other untouched ; because their sense as 
well as their poetry consists in allusion, and 
association. We are not merely told of | 
that, which it is the direct object of the in- 
spired minstrels to describe, but our 
thoughts are extended beyond to an infinity 
of relative ideas, which neither crowd upon 
nor neutralize each other, but all flow natu- 
turally and easily into the same stream of 
enjoyment, mingling with and accelerating 
its uniform and uninterrupted course. 

We now conclude this minute examina- 
tion of the Scriptures, not only because it is 
unnecessary for our purpose to pursue it 
further, but because we should soon arrive 
at those portions of the sacred record, which 
consist entirely of poetry, the most genuine 
and sublime. We have already seen 
enough to convince us that the same princi- 
ple which is associated with our highest in- 
tellectual enjoyments, is diffused—copiously 
diffused throughout the written revelation 
of eternal truth, a revelation whose wonder- 
ful adaptation to every variety of human 
nature, feeling, and condition, carries along 
with it the clearest evidence of its divine au- 
thority. Coeval with the infancy of time, 
it still remains, and widens in the circle of 
its intelligence. Simple as the language of 
a child, it charms the most fastidious taste. 
Mournful as the voice of grief, it reaches to 
the highest pitch of exultation. Intelligible 
to the unlearned peasant, it supplies the 
critic and the sage with food for earnest 
thought. Silent and secret as the reproofs 


eens, 


of conscience, it echoes beneath the vaulted 
dome of the cathedral and shakes the trem- 
bling multitude. The list companion of the 
dying and the destitute, it seals the bridal 
vow, and crowns the majesty of kings. 
Closed in the heedless grasp of the luxu- 
rious and the slothful, it unfolds its awful re- 
cord over the yawning grave. Sweet, and 
gentle, and consoling to the pure in heart, it 
thunders and threatens against the un- 
awakened mind. SGright and joyous as the 
morning star to the benighted traveller, it 
rolls like the waters of the deluge over the 
path of him who wilfully mistakes his way. 
And, finally, adapting itself to every 
shade of human character, and to every 
grade of moral feeling, it instructs the igno- 
rant, woos the gentle, consoles the afflicted, 
encourages the desponding, rouses the neg- 
ligent, threatens the rebellious, strikes home 
to the reprobate, and condemns the guilty. 

It may be observed, that all this might 
have been effected without the instrumen- 
tality of the principle of poetry ; and so un- 
questionably it might, had the Creator of 
the human heart seen meet to adapt it to 
different means of instruction; but as that 
heart is constituted, the delicate touches of 
feeling to be found in every part of the Holy 
Scriptures accord peculiarly with its sensi- 
bilities ; the graceful ornaments which 
adorn the language of the Bible correspond 
to the impressions it has received, the ideas 
which have consequently been formed of 
the principles of taste and beauty ; and by 
no other medium that we are capable of 
conceiving, could the human heart have 
been more forcibly assured of the truths to 
which belong eternal life. 

Had the Bible been without its poetical 
character, \we should have wanted the voice 
of an angel to recommend it to the accept- 
ance of mankind. Prone as we are to neg- 
lect this banquet upon which the most ex- 
alted mind may freely and fully feast, we 
should then have regarded it with tenfold 
‘disdain. But such is the unlimited goodness 
of him who knew from the beginning what 
was in the heart of man, that not only the 
wide creation is so designed as to accord 
with our views of what is magnificent and 
beautiful, and thus to remind us of his 
glory; but even the record of his imme- 


Ce a + em 


THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 


137 


diate dealing with his rational and responsi- 
ble creatures, is so filled with the true me- 
lody of language, as to harmonize with all 
our most tender, refined, and elevated 
thoughts. With our established ideas of 
beauty, and grace, and pathos, and sub- 
limity, either concentrated in the minutest 
point, or extended to the widest range, we 
can derive from the Scriptures a fund of 
gratification not to be found in any other }' 
memorial of past or present time. From 
the worm that grovels in the dust beneath 
our feet, to the track of the leviathan in the 
foaming deep—from the moth that corrupts 
the secret treasure, to the eagle that soars || 
above his eyry in the clouds—from the wild 
ass of the desert, to the lamb within the 
shepherd’s fold—from the consuming locust, 
to the cattle upon a thousand hills—from the 
rose of Sharon to the cedar of Lebanon— 
from the crystal stream gushing forth out of 
the flinty rock, to the wide waters of the 
deluge—from the barren waste to the fruit- 
ful vineyard, and the land flowing with milk 
and honey—-from the lonely path of the 
wanderer, to the gathering of a mighty mul- 
titude—from the tear that falis in secret, to 
the din of battle, and the shout ofa trium- 


phant host—from the solitary in the wilder- 
ness, to the satrap on his throne—from the 
mourner clad in sackcloth, to the prince in 
purple robes—from the gnawings of the 
worm that dieth not, to the seraphic visions || 
of the blest—from the still small voice, to 
the thunders of Omnipotence—irom the 
depths of hell, to the regions of eternal 
glory, there is no degree of beauty or de- 
formity, no tendency to good or evil, no 
shade of darkness or gleam of light, which 
does not come within the cognizance of the 
Holy Scriptures; and therefore there is no 
impression or conception of the mind that 
may not find a corresponding picture, no 
thirst for excellence that may not meet with 
its full supply, and no condition of humanity 
necessarily excluded from the unlimited 
scope of adaptation and of sympathy com- 
prehended in the language and the spirit of 
the Bible. | 

How gracious then—how wonderful, and 
harmonious, is that majestic plan by which 
one ethereal principle, like an electric chain 
of light and life, extends through the very 


| ce 


eee ee, 


138 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


+ 


elements of our existence, giving music to 
language, elevation to thought, vitality to 
feeling, and intensity, and power, and beau- 
ty, and happiness, to the exercise of every 
faculty of the human soul! 


eR A Soe 


THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 


Nor are the Holy Scriptures the utmost 
bound of the sphere through which poetry 
extends. With that religion which is the 
essence of the Bible, it may also be associated. 
Tke power of human intellect has never 
yet worked out from the principles of thought 
and feeling, a subject more sublime than 
that of an omnipotent Being presiding over 
a universe of hisown creating. There have 
been adventurous spirits who have dared to 


| sing the wonders of a world without a God, 


but as a proof how much they felt the 
want of this higher range of poetical interest, 
they have referred the creation and govern- 
ment of the external world to an ideal spirit 
of nature—a mysterious intelligence, single 
or multiplied, smiling in the sunshine, and 
frowning in the storm, with the mock majes- 
ty of omnipotence. 

Again, the propensities of our nature—the 
low grovelling hopes and fears that agitate 
the human heart, when centred solely in 
what is material, without connection with, or 
reference 1o eternal mind, as subjects for the 
genius of the poet, are robbed of half their 
interest, and all their refinement; but when 
the feelings which form the sum of our ex- 
perience are regarded as the impress of the 
hand of our Creator, when the motives which 
lead us on to action are considered as deriving 
their stimulus and strength from almighty 
power, and when the great chain of cireum- 
stances and events which influence our lives 
are linked in with the designs of a superin- 
tending Providence, they assume a character 
at once poetical and sacred, a colouring which 
blends the light of heaven with the shades 
of earth, and an importance which raises 
them from what is ordinary and familiar, to 
what is astonishing and sublime. 

The most serious objection ever advanced 
against poetry, is that of its not necessarily 
constituting any part of our religion, and be- 


ing in no way essential to our spiritual 
progress. Upon precisely the same prin- 
ciples it might be argued, that beauty does 
not necessarily form any part of utility, 
and that happiness is not essential 1o the 
moral constitution of man. The same an- 
swer will apply in both cases; and it is one 
which ought to be sufficient for creatures of 
limited perceptions like ourselves. It has 
seemed meet to the Author of our existence 
so to construct our mental and bodily fune- 
tions, that we shall derive pleasure from the 
principle of beauty diffused throughout the 
external world, and that we shall be lured 
on by a perpetual thirst for enjoyment to 
that which is our only true and lasting hap- 
piness; as well as so to constitute our per- 
ceptions and feelings that poetry shall be 
one of our chief sources of intellectual grati- 
fication, at the same time that it is intimate- 
ly blended with the highest objects of our 


| desire ; so that in the pursuit of ultimate and 


eternal good, we have no need to resign the 
society of this unwearying friend, whose 


companionship is a constant refreshment and | 


delight. 

I would humbly refer both these subjects 
to the unlimited goodness of a gracious God. 
If the beauty and magnificence of tne visible 
creation is not essential to practical utility, 
let us look upon it as a free gift, liberally of- 
fered for the promotion of our happiness ; 
and if poetry does not appear to our finite 
views to be in reality a part of religion, let 
us consider how they are associated, and 
gratefully acknowledge their connexion, ra- 
ther than presumptuously attempt to sepa- 
rate what the principles of ovr nature teach 
us to unite. 

We will first speak of the poetry of reli- 
gion as it is exhibited to the world, in some 
of the various modes of worship which mark 
the civil and religious history of man. 

Under the terrific rule of tyranny and 
superstition, religion has ever been the first 
to suffer and the last to yield; and whether 
we contemplate the martyr at the stake, 
singing his triumphant hymns amongst the 
circling flames; or pursue the silent devo- 
tee to the secret recesses of the mountain, 
or the wilderness, where the bond of Chris- 
tian brotherhood is strengthened and con- 
firmed by the horrors of an impending fate 


| 
| 


THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 


139 


nents ostmnipennsnsbostscemgesa 


ee . 
which threatens to leave that bond alone 
unbroken, of all that have sweetened and 
supported life, we see and feel, that the 
might of mortal suffering, gives even to the 
most humble victims of cruelty and oppres- 
sion, a dignity which entitles them to the 
highest place in the scale of poetical inte- 
rest.™ 

So far as poetry is connected with the 
| exercise of fortitude, resignation, and ardent 
zeal, it is exhibited by the martyr in its holi- 
est character. Suffering even to death, 
and sucha death! yet suffering triumphantly, 
that the glory of God may shine with addi- 
tional brightness before the eyes of men, 
and that unbelievers may behold the majesty 
and the power of the faith for which he dies. 
Nor has it been always the man of iron 
mould, of unshaken. nerve, and inflexible 
resolve, who has died triumphant at the 
stake. Creatures of delicate and gentle 
form have been led forth from the hall and 
the bower, and they too have raised the cry 
of exultation that they were deemed worthy 
to set the seal of suffering to the cause they 
ij loved. Eyes that have never dwelt save on 
the fairest page of human life have gleamed 
out from amidst the lurid flames, and looked 
up in calmness and in confidence to the 
mercy that lies hid beyond the skies; hands 
whose gentle office had been the constant 
ministration of tenderness and charity, have 
been clasped in fervent prayer, until they 
mingled with the ashes of the sinking pile ; 
brows around which the cherub locks of 
youth were woven, have borne the fatal 
ordeal, and betrayed no sign of shrinking 
from the fiery blast; and voices whose 
sweet tones were once the natural min- 


strelsy of happiness and love, have been | 


* In justice to herself, the writer must here observe, 
in speaking of the poetry of religion, how forcibly she is 
struck with what some would call the pwerility of the 
task she has undertaken; because this subject necessa- 
rily brings under serious observation the all important 
truths for which we ought to be willing either to live or 
die as duty may require; and before which all intellec- 
tual considerations, even that of poetry itself, vanish into 
comparative nothingness. She would however hope 
_|| that her task may be pursued without irreverence, and 
‘|| that she may point out the poetry of religion with a dis- 
tinct feeling of its weightier and more essential attri- 
butes, in the same way that a beholder may expatiate 
upon the architecture of a cathedral, without reference 
to the purpose for which the building was originally de- 
signed and to which it is still appropriated. 


heard above the crackling embers, and the 
shouts cf brutal acclamation, hymning to 
heaven the pure melodious strains of a 
seraphic joy. Fresh from the fount of do- 
mestic peace, young, innocent bosoms have 
been torn to bleed and writhe in the centre 
of the torturing fire, and trembling with the 
last throbs of mortal agony, have borne 
their unflinching testimony to the fervour 
of their faith. The cry of an agonized pa- 
rent bursting from the surrounding throng, 
may have reached the sufferer in the flames, 
the eye that was once the beacon of his 
hopes may have glanced upon him through 
the dense and thickening smoke, and 
thoughts dear as the memory of early love, 
may have rushed upon his soul even there, 


bathing it in the tenderness of childhood, | 


and melting down his high resolve, which, 


but for that sustaining and unquenchable | 
zeal, would yet have sent him forth a worth- || 
less wreck upon the troubled ocean of life | 


after the promised haven had been in sight, 
the pilot near, and the anchor of eternal 
hope ready to be cast for ever into the foun- 
dation which no storms can shake. Yet 
even here his faith remains immoveable, 
and he shakes off the lingering weakness 
of humanity, his joyful spirit already antici- 
pating the unbounded fruition of its promised 
felicity. 

Let us contemplate the awful scene one 
moment longer. The excitement has sub- 
sided ; the cry of the merciless spectators is 
heard no more; the smoking pile becomes 
one universal ruin; and the living form so 
lately quivering with the intensity of quick- 
ened and agonized sensation, is mingled 
with the silent dust. Are there not foot- 
steps lingering near that fatal spot? Are 
there not looks too wild for tears, still fixed 
upon the white ashes with which the idle 
breezes are at play? Are there not hearts 
whose inmost depths are filled with bitter- 
ness, and thoughts of vengeance, and dreams 
of impious daring, and fierce, bold scrutiny 
of the ways of Providence, and presump- 
tuous questioning if these are the tender 
mercies of the Most High? Yes; such 
has ever been the effect of persecution upon 
the human mind, and never is the infidel so 
firmly fortified against conviction, as when 
he contemplates the wrongs and the wretch- 


eee 


140 


edness which man, infuriated with a blind 
and superstitious zeal inflicts upon his bro- 
ther. 

We turn from this scene of horrors to the 
aspect presented by religion under a milder 
form of persecution, or rather under one 
whose influence is more remote, and we 
follow a little company of faithful worship- 
pers to their tabernacle in the mountains, 
where their canopy is the starry sky, and 
their altar the rude rocks of the wilderness. 
Upon the summit of a beetling precipice, a 
sentinel keeps watch, and while he looks to 
the sombre woods, the hollow caves, or the 
dim and distant heights, if haply he may 
discern the movements of an insiduous en- 
emy, hymns of praise and adoration are 
heard from the congregation in the valley, 
as, echoing from crag to crag, the deep full 
anthem of devotion rises on the evening 
breeze. Then the devout and’ heartfelt 
prayer is offered up, that the true Shepherd 
will vouchsafe to look down upon and visit 
the scattered remnant of his flock, that his 
voice may yet call them into safe pastures, 
and that he will pour out the waters of eter- 
nal life, for the support of the feeble, the 
refreshment of the weary, and the consola- 
tion of the “sore distressed.” 

It is in such scenes and circumstances, 
that the followers of a persecuted faith be- 
come indeed brethren in the fellowship of 
Christ. Suffering in a common cause, ap- 
prehending the same danger, and led on by 
one purpose, the vital bond of the society ex- 
tends and lives through all its members. 
Discord enterS not into their communion, 
for the world is against them, and they can 
stand under its cruelty and oppression by no 
other compact than that of Christian love ; 
jealousy pours not its rankling venom into 
their hearts, for they are hoping to attain a 
felicity in which all are blest; ambition 
sows not the seeds of selfishness amongst 
them, for their reward is one that admits of 
no monopoly—of which all may partake, 
without diminishing the portion of any: and 
after this pure and simple worship, how sa- 
cred, how fervent is the farewell of the 
brethren on separating for their distant 
home. Some have to trace the dubious 


sands of the sea-beaten shore, some the 
lonely sheep-track on the mountains, and 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
cath eins niente erase ls Nase soeseten aay 


some the hollow bed of the wintry torrent, 
whose thundering waters have worked out 
for themselves a rugged pathway down the 
hills; but all are accompanied by the same 
deep sense of outward danger, and internal 
peace—all have the same bright stars to 
light them on their silent way, and the same 
spiritual help to support their weary steps. 
They know not but the homes they are 
seeking may have become a heap of ruins ; 
but they have Jearned to look for an ever- 
lasting habitation where the spoiler may 
not come. They know not but the sword 
of persecution may have severed the chain 
of their domestic happiness; but they feel 
that every link of that chain can be reunited 
ina world of peace. They know not but 
the shadow of destruction may have fallen 
upon all that beautified and cheered their 
earthly path; but they are pilgrims to a 
better land, and they have only to press on- 
ward in the simplicity of humble Christians, 
and the gates of the celestial city will soon 
be won. 

Religion, stigmatized with the world’s con- 
tempt, and hunted from the earth by the 
powerful emissaries of public authority, is 
ever the religion of the heart and the affec- 
tions. Were it otherwise it could not stand 
its ground; but dignity and disgrace, tem- 
poral enjoyment and temporal suffering, even 
life and death, become as nothing in com- 
parison with that righteous cause which men 
feel themselves called upon faithfully to up- 
hold before a disbelieving people, for the 
glory of God and the benefit of their fellow 
creatures. If it be a test of the love which 
aman bears for his brother, that he will lay 
down his life for him, the test of suffering 
must also apply to his religion; and pure and 
devoted must be the love of him, who holds 
himself at all times in a state of readiness to 
lay down the last and dearest sacrifice up- 
on the altar of his faith. Yes; that must be 
love indeed, which overweighs all earthly and 
natural affections, which separates the mo- 
ther from her weeping child, the husband 
from his wife of yesterday, the friends who 
had been wont to take sweet counsel togeth- 
er, and last, but not least, which tears away 
the fond endearing thoughts of promised 
happiness from the heart around which they 
cling when it beats with the fervour of youth- 


omen 


tc et ne NOT TC I eC ER PA PT EL AR ete 


THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 


ful hope, and rejoices in the anticipated sun- 
shine of bright days to come, in which the 
lovely and the loved may dwell together in 
peace and safety even upon earth. It is not 
a light or common love that can thus sever 
the strongest ties of human life, and fortify 
the soul not only to endure all that our na- 
ture shrinks from, but to resign all that our 
nature teaches us to hold dear. 

Irom the worship of the heart, we turn to 
that of the sanctuary—from religion robbed 


|| of its external attributes, restrained, and per- 


secuted, and driven inward to the centre of 
volition, and sealed up in the fountains of 
spiritual life ; to that which powerful nations 
combine to support, before which suppliant 
monarchs bow, and which, supreme above 
the regal sceptre, sends forth its awful and 
imperious mandates through distant regions 
of the peopled world. 

We enter the magnificent and stately edi- 
fice consecrated to the worship of a God no 
longer partially acknowledged, or reverenced 
at the risk of life, and we mark the pomp 
and the ceremonial designed to recommend 
that worship to the general acceptance of 
mankind. Through the richly variegated 
windows, bright beams of golden splendor 
are glancing on the marble floor, and light- 
ing up the monumental tablets of departed 
worth. Deeds of heroic virtue, long since 
forgotten but for that faithful record, are 
dimly shadowed out upon the tombs, and 
the sculptured forms that bend in silent beau- 
ty over the unbroken slumbers of the dead, 
point with an awful warning to the inevitable 
doom ofman. Above, around, and beneath 
us, are the storied pages on which human 
labour has inscribed the memorial of its 
power—the barriers raised by art against 
the encroachments of time—the landmarks 
graven upon stone, which denote the intel- 
lectual progress of pastages. We gaze up- 
on the tessellated aisle, intersected with al- 
ternate light and shadow, where the stately 


‘columns, terminating in the solemn arch, 


rise like tall palm trees in the desert plain, 
whose graceful branches meet in stately 
grandeur above the head of the wayfaring 


| traveller, while he pauses to bless their wel- 
'come shade, and thinks how lovely are the 


green spots of verdure in the wilderness— 
the fertile islands that beautify a waste and 


141 


troubled sea. We listen, and the measured 
tread of sober feet is the only sound that dis- 
turbs the silence of that sacred place—we, 
listen, till the beating of our own hearts be- 
comes audible, and we almost fear that a 
“stir—a breath” should break the slumbers 
of the dead—we listen, and suddenly the 
tremendous peal of the deep-toned organ 
bursts upon our ear, and sweet young voices, 
like a symphony of pure spirits, join the hea- 
venly anthem as it rises in a louder strain of 
harmony, and echoes though every arch of 
the resounding pile. The anthem ceases, 
and the sound of prayer ascends from a 
thousand hearts, as variously formed as the 
lips from whence that prayer proceeds, yet 
all uniting in the worship of one God—all 
reverentially acknowledging his right to 
reign and rule with undisputed sway. 
Perhaps it is the hour of evening worship, 
and instead of the bright sunbeams glanc- 
ing through the many-tinted windows, and 
penetrating into the distant recesses of the 
cathedral pile, artificial lights of inferior lus- 
tre gleam out here and there, like stars in 
the midnight sky, making the intervening 


darkness more palpable and profound. It is |; 
the hour when “every soft and solemn in- | 
fluence” is poured most profusely upon the || 
prostrate soul, when the sordid and merce- || 
nary cares of the day are over, and religion, || 
like an angel of peace, descends upon the |; 
troubled spirit that knows no other resting |: 


place than her sanctuary—no other shelter 
than her brooding wing. It is the hour 
when all our warmest, purest, and holiest 


affections gush forth like rills of sweetness |! 


and refreshment, watering the verdure of 
the path of life, and producing fresh loveli- 
ness, and renewed delight. 
when prayer is the natural language of the 
devoted soul, and here the humble penitent 
is kneeling to implore the pardon promised 
to the broken and contrite heart—there the 


It is the hour || 


parent devoutly asks a blessing upon his fa- || 


mily, and his household, upon the wife of 
his bosom, and the children of his love— 
here the poor mendicant bares his pale 
brow before the eye of heaven, and stands 
without a blush in that presence to which 
wealth is no passport, and from which po- 
verty affords no plea for rejection—there the 
rich arbitrer of magisteriallaw, humbly bends 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


re 


| his knee, and acknowledges, that without 

the sanction of divine authority the judg- 
| ment of man must be vain, and his sentence 
void—here the miserable outcast from soci- 
|, ety, glides unnoticed along the silent aisle, 
and bending beneath the shadow of a mar- 
ble column, bathes her hollow cheek with 
tears whose sincerity is unquestioned here— 
there the gaily habited, admired, and che- 
rished idol of the same society folds her 
white hands upon her bosom, and feels the 
deep aching void which religion alone is 
sufficient to supply—here the rosy lips of 
cherub infancy lisp the words of prayer, 
more felt than comprehended amidst the aw- 
ful grandeur of that solemn scene; and 
there the wrinkled brow of age is illumi- 
nated with the overpowing brightness of 
anticipated joy, while feeble accents, broken 
by the tremors of infirmity and pain, tell of 
the gladness of renovated life. 

It is this variety of sight and sound, min- 
gled together into one scene, and united in 
the same holy purpose, which constitutes a 
harmony so true to the principles of human 
nature, as well as to the character and attri- 
butes of the Divine Being, and the relation 
between him and his lowly and erring 
creatures, that we cannot contemplate such 
worship without aspiring to partake in its 
reality—we cannot feel its reality without 
being raised higher in the scale of spiritual 
enjoyment. 

If, retiring from this scene, we follow the 
penitent to his secret cell, we behold him 
lacerating his bleeding limbs, and torturing 
out what he believes to be the demon of his 
natural heart; or we watch him through the 
tedious hours of solitary musing, when the 
sun is shining upon the walls of his con- 
vent, upon the green flowery valley where 
it stands, and upon the glancing waters of a 
river whose pure fresh streams glide on with 
a perpetual melody, through woods, and 
groves, the verdant beauty of whose mazy 
labyrinths look like the chosen walks of 
wandering angels. While the bright sun is 
shining upon a scene, the pale monk sits 
brooding over the transgressions of his 
youth, and counting a never-varying circle 
of dull beads; or, stooping his cold forehead 
to the stony floor, he closes every avenue of 


NN 


DS ee ee! 
2 aa ee 


rational enjoyment, and believing this im- 
molation of his nature is the sacrifice his God 
requires, pledges himself to the same absti- 
nence, the same penance, and the same 
abasement through all the long years of his 
after-life. : |! 

It is not, most assuredly, to the nature of 
such worship, that we would accord the 
meed of poetical merit; but to the earnest- 
ness, the sincerity, the total dedication of 
heart, which its votaries display, and which 
might sometimes bring a blush of shame 
upon the less devoted followers of a more 
enlightened faith. | 

Nor is the simplicity of a less ostentatious 
form of worship inferior in its accordance 
with the true spirit of poetry. ‘There is not 
much to fix the gaze of the beholder in the 
quiet congregation of a village church, or 
in the little band of lowly suppliants who 
bend the knee within the walls of the con- 
venticle, and listen to the impassioned elo- 
quence, bursting in extemporaneous fervour, 
from the lips of the humble labourer in the 
vineyard, whose reward is not the gift of 
sordid gain, but the soul-sustaining con- 
sciousness of walking in the ways of truth, 
and yielding the tribute of obedience where 
simply to obey is to enjoy. There is not 
much to interest the mere spectator in such 
a scene; but there is much to cheer the 
spirit of the philanthropist in the contempla- | 
tion of the earnest zeal, the strict integrity, 
and the devotional fervour which inspires 
this staunch adherence to what conscience 
points out asa better way than that estab- 
lished by former ages, supported by national 
authority, and persevered in by thousands 
from a blind partiality for old customs and 
familiar forms. 

Far be it from the writer of these pages, 
to draw invidious comparisons between one 
creed and another, or to join the public voice 
which makes destruction rather than edifi- 
cation the object of its tumultuous outcry. 
Whatever is the subject of popular belief, 
or the common ground on which mankind 
concentrate their energies and hopes, it 
argues the proper exercise of moral feeling, | 
when those who dissent from such belief | 
have the courage and integrity to avow that || 
dissent in the face of a disapproving world— | 


\ 


a a a ni ; 
55a maeaneeeerataere game LE ESET ATES TOIT CI FE CRUEL LIA PE TE ARIS CE EP ISSIR EAE IIE RE IEE SG ee ae 


——— |] 


a 


THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 


143 


when those who depart from such ground, 
do so in Christian love, and charity, and 
with full purpose of heart. 

It is when entertaining these views of 
moral rectitude, that we behold with pecu- 
liar interest a congregation of schismatical 


| worshippers, and even if we cannot join in 


the peculiar form of their devotional duties, 


| we can at least rejoice that there are inde- 


pendent minds, ready to shake off the bond- 
age of established opinion, and freely and 
fully to acknowledge whatever they con- 
scientiously believe to be the truth, making 
the testimony of their own faith supreme 
above the authorities of this world, and 
preferring the service of God before the 
gracious countenance of men. 

There are cases too, when this system of 
worship comes home to the affections of the 
people unprovided for by the established 
religion of the land. There are obscure and 
isolated beings, dwelling in remote or thinly 
peopled districts, by whom the sound of the 
Sabbath bell is seldom heard, and to whom 
the welcome visitation of a Christian min- 
ister would scarcely be known, but for the 
pilgrim preacher, who penetrates, not only 
into the solitary cottage of the herdsman on 
the mountain, but into the lowest haunts of 
savage life, where, instead of the simplicity 
of pastoral innocence, he finds the brutality 
of rustic vice. Nor must we judge of the 
announcement of a village prayer meeting, 
or the appearance of an itinerant preacher, 
by what we ourselves should feel, if com- 
pelled to listen to his wild eloquence, stirring 
up the unsophisticated mind to enthusiasm, 
if not to pure devotion. We must picture 
the poor and destitute old man, infirm and 
helpless, racked with pain, and trembling 
on the brink of the grave, weary of life, yet 
dreading the darkness and the uncertainty of 
death, his anguish never soothed by the 
voice of kindness, nor his heart enlightened 
by the words of comfort or instruction. We 
must picture him day after day, and night 
after night, the sleepless, restless victim of 
Jassitude and disease, without a thought 

| beyond the narrow bounds of his miserable 
hovel, or a feeling separate from the pangs 
that torture his emaciated frame. To such 
an one, perhaps the wandering minister 
imparts the sanguine hope that animates 


| 
| 
| 


his own soul, when suddenly the couch of 
suffering is converted into one of triumph. 
He who cannot read, can feel the words of 
life; and joyfully he clasps his trembling 
hands in full assurance of an immortality, 
from whose inexhaustible happiness, the 
poor, the despised, and the needy are not 
shut out. 

Or we turn to the cottage of the lonely 
widow who has lost the sole prop of her de- 
clining years, whose children are distant or 
dead, who sit: from morn till night in the si- 
lence of her desolate home, pursuing the 
same monotonous range of limited and 
painful thought—looking alternately from 
her narrow lattice upon the wide bare sur- 
face of the distant hills, or back again to the 
white ashes that lie upon her silent hearth. 
It is to such a being (and there are many 
whose existence is a little more enlivened 
by mental or spiritual excitement) that the 
social prayer meeting becomes an object of 
intense and incalculable enjoyment, the com- 
munion of fellow Christians a living aud 
lasting consolation, and the record of divine 
truth the source of vital interest and de- 
light. 

There are in the darkest and most de- 
graded walks of life, coarse, blind votaries 
of mere animal gratification, outcasts from 
the pale of intellectual as well as moral fel- 
lowship, gross bodily creatures, who sink 
the character of man beneath the level of 
the brute—men whose haunts are the pol- 
luted habitations of guilt and shame, whose 
feelings are seared with the brand of public 
infamy, and whose souls are blasted with 
the contagion of lawless thoughts and des- 
picable purposes, and passions uncontrolled. 
By such men the paths that lead to the 
house of prayer are more despised than the 
gates of hell, and rather than seek the par- 
don of an offended God, they impotently 
defy his power. But at the same time that 
they are boasting of their recklessness, and 
making an open parade of the impious pros- 
titution of their souls, the worm that dieth 
not has begun its irresistible operation upon 
their hearts, and the darkness and horror 
which surrounded them in their solitary 
hours assume a tenfold gloom. They hear 
of religion, and they hate the name; but 
with their hate is mingled a secret trust in 


ee a n= te 


| 


2 Sa cca ie acannon Sip ee I PRS SEAS ET EE OPER LT EEE FO IS SS Ga ERR 


en 


Le a On Re tr eet ae eigen meen oe mas Seo Feceen ss norepomope eee 


4 


144 


its efficacy to remove the intolerable burden 
under which they groan. They scorn to 
join the congregation of openly professing 
worshippers, though but to hear the nature 
of religion explained; but without implicat- 
ing themselves, they can go forth into the 
open fields to listen to, and mock the less 
authorized enthusiast, pouring his unpre- 
meditated eloquence upon the wondering 
ears of thousands, who would not have lis- 
tened to his voice elsewhere. And such are 
the means by which the hardened sinner is 
not unfrequently awakened from his gross 
and brutal sleep, the outcasts from the so- 
‘i ciety drawn back within the wholesome 
!! limitations of a decent life, and the repro- 
i| bate reclaimed from the dangerous error of 
} his ways. 

‘| Nor let the more enlightened Christian 
|i despise such humble means, whose chief 
1 merit is their unbounded extent, added to 
| their adaptation to extreme cases, and 
|srer efficacy, proved by the observation 


| 


of every day, is a sufficient warrant for their 
lawfulness. With the too frequent abuse of 
these means, poetry holds no connection ; 
| but it is their least recommendation to say, 
|| that poetry is intimately associated with 
|| their power to awaken the dormant energies 
of the mind, to penetrate the heart, and 
mingle with the affections, and to let in the 
glorious light of immortality upon the be- 
| 
| 
} 


nighted soul. 

Of all the public ordinances of our reli- 
gion, that which appoints one day in seven 
for a season of rest, is perhaps the most pro- 
ductive of poetical association, and as such 
has ever been a favourite theme with the 
imaginative bard. In a world such as we 
inhabit, and witha bodily and mental confor- 
mation like ours, it is natural that rest 
should become (especially in advanced 
age) the object of our continual desire, and 

' that regarding it superficially, as it appears 
'! to us in the midst of the cares and perplexi- 
‘ ties of ordinary life, we should learn to 
speak of it as our chief good; although itis 
probable that in a purer sphere, and endowed 
with renovated powers of action and per- 
ception, we should find that constant activity 
was more productive of enjoyment. Even 
here, the word rest is one of comparative 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


tunity of making the experiment become 
more weary of continued repose than of 
continued exertion. Still the pining of the 
heart is ever after some portion of natural 
and necessary rest, and the Sabbath, where 
it is regarded with right feelings, affords a 
beautiful and perfect exemplification of the 
provision made by our Heavenly Father, to 
meet the wants and the wishes of humanity. 

Those pitiable beings whose mental exis- 
tence is supported by a perpetual succession 
of excitements, are wholly incapable of con- 
ceiving what the Sabbath is to the me- 
chanic, the labourer, or even to the man of 
business, whose heart is with his family, 
while his head and hands are occupied in 
the daily traffic of mercantile affairs. To 
such a man the Sabbath is indeed a day of 
refreshment, as well as rest—a day in 
which he can listen to the prattle of his 
almost unknown children, and look into their 
opening minds, and cultivate a short—alas, 
too short acquaintance with the sources of 
domestic happiness—it is a day on which he 
can enter into the free unreserved compan- 
ionship of his own fireside, and, feeling that 
he has a possession in the esteem and the 
approbation of those around him, in the 
moral rights of man, in the institutions of 
religion, and in the heritage of an immortal 
creature, he aspires to a higher and more 
intellectual state of being than that absorbed 
in the continual pursuit of wealth. If then 
he loves the Sabbath, it is not merely be- 
cause it relieves him from the necessity of 
laborious exertion, but because it makes him 
a wiser and a better man. 

The mechanic has the same reason, and 
the same right to welcome this day. Indeed 
it seems to be the peculiar privilege of those 
who spend their intervening hours in toil 
and trouble, to appreciate the enjoyment of 
the Sabbath, so far as it affords them an in- 
terval of cessation from irksome cares. 
Rightly to enjoy, and fully to appreciate the 
value of the Sabbath, requires the associa- 
tion of a higher range of thought and feel- 
ing, such as religion alone can supply. | 

If, in. the busy town, and for those who | 


NS pt ep See 
TOE TN LITE IL, EEE ETT Fray’ 


tread the beaten paths of life, there is much 
to interest the heart in the recurrence of the 
Sabbath—in the chiming of innumerable 
bells at stated intervals of public worship, in 


the gathering of vast multitudes assembled 
for one common purpose, and that the holiest 
of which our mortal nature is capable, and 
in the general aspect of sobriety, order, and 
profound respect which pervades the thickly- 
peopled city, how much more is to be felt 
where man exists in a state of greater sim- 
plicity, in the rude home of the peasant, 
or in those little groups of humble dwellings 
gemming the fertile plain, in the midst of 
which the tall village spire rises and points 
to heaven. It is not here as in the city, 
that the loud peal of many bells announces 
the hour of prayer, but the single bell tolling 
at intervals, is converted into music by the 
fresh pure morning air, and the many simple 
and delightful associations connected with 
that well-known sound. Perhaps a beloved 
and revered minister is there to welcome 
his people. once again within the fold of 
Christian communion; families separated by 
the occupations of the week, now meet to 
offer up their fervent prayers together; the 
the village pauper stands upon the same 
foundation as the village lord, and looks 
upward with the same calm countenance to 
meet the light of heaven; the comely-habited 
maiden closes the wicket of her father’s 
garden, and hastens at the universal call; 
while the feeble steps of infancy and age, 
blending their weakness and their humble 
confidence together, are heard slowly advan- 
cing along the solemn aisle. No sooner is 
the simple service ended, than a cordial re- 
cognition takes place between the pastor 
and his congregation, and often between 
those who meet too seldom—the rich and the 
poor—the exalted and the lowly: and kind 
questions are asked of the suffering or the 
absent, followed by visits of Christian love, 
and words of consolation, to those who are 
debarred the privilege of meeting their 
brethren and their friends within the con- 
secrated walls of the church. 

It is on these days, that through the still- 
| ness of the summer air, we often hear the 
| mournful cadence of distant and harmoni- 
ous voices, singing at intervals their low 
sweet requiem over the bier of a departed 
friend, as they bear him to his last long 
home beneath the outstretched arms of the 
sheltering elms, that skirt the precincts of 
the dead, and cast their sombre shadows 


a 


10 


THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 


145 


athwart the beams of the declining sun. 
Perhaps it is a venerable parent who has 
been quietly translated to his place of rest, 
and the tears of the surrounding mourners 
fall into the grave without bitterness, and 
almost without regret; for the poor have 
happier thoughts of the last call announcing 
the termination of mortal suffering, than 
those whose progress through this world 
is less interrupted with hardship, toil, and 
pain. 

But it is quite as possible that the lifeless 
form for which that bier is spread, should 
have been the rustic beauty of the fair and 
the festival, the pride of the village, the 
belle who bore away the palm of admiration 
from her less lovely sisters who now stand 
weeping by her side, without one touch of 
envy, or one wish, except to call her back to 
trace again the flowery meadows, to sing 
her songs of native melody, and to meet 
them with her ever-beaming smile of youth 
and joy. But it may not be. And she who 
was so fondly cherished, so tenderly beloved, 
so flattered and admired, is consigned to 
the cold prison of the tomb, and left to the 
unbroken silence of her solitary sleep. 

With the Sabbath evening in the village, 
are connected a thousand agreeable associ- 
ations, which those who are not alive to the 
true poetry of life, are unable to enjoy. Nor 
is it the least portion of the satisfaction af- 
forded by this day, to see the cattle that 
have borne their share in the labour of the 
week, without participating in its reward, 
browsing in the cool pastures, or resting 
their toil worn limbs upon the sunny slopes 
of the verdant hills. The shady lanes 
around the village afford shelter and _ re- 
freshment to many a persecuted animal that 
knows no other day of rest; and as we pass 
along, we see groups of rosy children wan- 
dering hand in hand in quest of wild flowers, 
or the purple fruit of the bramble, which 
seems to be the only unalienable property 
of childhood; or we meet with families 
going half-way home with a beloved son or 
daughter, whose portion of servitude is now 
cast in some distant hamlet, from whence 
the occasional return is an event of long 
promise, and widely participated joy. 
Around the open door of the peasant are 
other groups of more infantine beauty, and 


sla] 


eee enc eee ec ee ee eee 


re ne TE | Seer cere aS og a a SS 


146 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


— ee On 


as the father stands beside them, with the 
Bible in his hand, the fond mother looks 
alternately at him and them, as if the whole 
wealth of her existence were centered in 
these her household treasures; while retir- 
ing into some quiet nook of the cottage or 
the garden, the little patient pupil of Sab- 
bath discipline carefully cons his lesson for 
the coming week. Farther on within a 
neatly trimmed enclosure, where the red 
daisy, and the dark green box, mark out 
the boundary lines surrounding the rose 
tree, the sweet briar, and the climbing hon- 
eysuckle, stands the quiet habitation of an 
ancient dame, who diligently spells out the 
meaning of the sacred page, in uninterrupted 
loneliness and peace. In the distance we 
hear the sound of many voices joining in 
hymns of prayer and praise—the old and 
the young—the feeble and the firm, raised 
together in one delightful symphony of gra- 
titude and love: and if scattered here and 
there, we find little companies of the idle, 
the thoughtless, or the gay, they are still 
those whose outward decency—whose fresh 
bright looks of health and happiness, evince 
a respect for the Sabbath, and a participa- 
tion in its universal calm. 

It is after the contemplation of scenes like 
these, that we return to our homes, more 
happy in the thought, that the young have 
their serious moments, the widely separated 
their time of meeting, the ignorant their 
seasons of instruction, the old their consola- 
tion, and the weary ne day of rest. 

It is not however to the public offices of 
religion, that its poetical interest is confined. 
If we look into the private walks of life, we 
behold this powerful principle working the 
most important revolutions in the moral 
character of man—if into the midst of fami- 
lies, we find it severing or uniting the firm- 
est links of natural connexion—giving so- 
lemnity to the sad parting—over the glad 
meeting after long separation diffusing a 

r holy joy—imparting reverence to the attri- 
butes of age—purity and happiness to the 


| 


a a rR SN 
ne i ET 


with its sanctifying influence over all the 
different offices of duty, and charity, and 
love—or if we look into the human heart, it 
kr here that religion is seen controlling the 


cheerful smiles of childhood—and presiding | 


ios he (rin tee tee - — = ¥ ; = 


fiery passions of youth, subduing the stub- 
born will, softening down the asperities of 
nature, and mingling with the springs of 
earthly feeling the pure, inexhaustible wa- 
ters of eternal life. 

How would the fond mother endure with 
fortitude the sad farewell, that separates the 
son of her hopes from the genial atmosphere 
of domestic peace, if she did not in _her 
heart consign him to the more judicious 
care of his heavenly Father? or how would 
she send him forth alone*to trace his distant 
and dubious pathway through the wilder- 
ness of life, but for her faith in the guiding 
hand which she implores to direct him 
through its manifold temptations, to lead 
him safely through its dangers, and bring 
him back to her yearning bosom unspotted 
from the world. It is the internal support 
derived from religion that nerves her for the 
trial, and reconciles her to the after hours 
of watchfulness and care, when she may 
look in vain for tidings from the wanderer, 
and calculate with fruitless anticipation upon 
the hour of his return. 

It is the same feeling of religion not un- 
frequently excited to enthusiasm, that tears 
away the youthful devotee from all the joys 
of nature, and the endearments of domestic 
love; clothing her fair forehead in the mourn- 
ful vestments of monastic gloom, and sha- 
dowing the young cheek from which the 
last rose has faded, with the sable pall of a 
premature and living death. 

It is religion too that steals upon the soul 
of the contemplative student, and lures him 
him away from the haunts of convivial 
mirth, from the excitement of the flowing 
bowl, and from the ambition of the sordid or 
the gay, to devote the highest powers and 
energies of his mind to the edification of his 
fellow creatures, and the spring time of his 
existence to the service of his God. 

It is this support which keeps alive the 
hope of the heart-stricken wife, as she pur- 
sues her reprobate husband through the 
dark windings of his sinful course, wooing 
him back with her unfailing gentleness to 
the comforts of his home, watching over him 
in his unguarded moments, with the balm 
of Christian consolation ever ready for his 
hour of need, and supplicating with incessant 


a: MOD) OC 
5 lal 


—_—— SS ae ee ee a eS 
SS REE ETE EE 


i At ee te 
La STE ITE CT a eo Lira che a 


| 


4 
i 


oe i 


prayers, that a stronger arm than hers may 
be stretched out to arrest the progress of 
his erring steps. 

Without this active and living principle, 
operating upon the various dispositions of 
mankind, we should never witness those 
instances of self denial in the cause of vir- 
tue, which afford the strongest evidence of 
the all-sustaining efficacy of religion. How, 
for instance, would the compassionate mai- 
den find strength to reject her worthless 
lover, because the stain of guilt was upon 
his brow, and because his spirit refused to 
bow down and worship at the altar of her 
God, if the claims of duty were not para- 
mount to those of affection? And yet such 
things have been; and warm, young hearts, 
whose cords of happiness were rent asunder 
by the fierce and fiery trial, have chosen for 
themselves a solitary lot, separate and dis- 
tinct from the sphere of their long cherished 
enjoyments, and have dwelt in peace and 
resignation under the guiding influence of 
the one divine light, by which all others, 
from whence they had ever derived hope or 
gladness were extinguished. 

Yes; and the man of strong affections, 
whose downward tendency in the career of 
worldly occupation, had reduced a tender 
wife and helpless children to the last extreme 
of poverty and wretchedness, has been 
visited with powerful temptation in his hour 
of weakness, when his perceptions of right 
and wrong were so confused with bodily and 
mental suffering, that the limitations of 
moral good seemed to be yielding to the 
encroachments of physical evil, when the 
wants of his starving family were bursting 
forth in audible and heart-rending appeals 
for which he had no answer, when the sha- 
dows of despair fell around him, and squalid 
misery encircled his cold hearth. And he 
too has stood his ground, strong in the con- 
fidence that real good, or lasting happiness, 
never yet was purchased by the sacrifice of 
virtuous rectitude. 

But if we measure the strength of the 
principle by the weakness of the agent it 
inspires, we would point out, above all other 


instances of its operative power, that in 


which a child looks boldly in the face of au- 
thority, and daring the retributive judgment 


THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 


oo + peace —e 


SS Se 


147 


which must inevitably follow, openly and 
freely tells the truth. Sometimes a single 
falsehood, or a mere evasion would save the 
little culprit from the pain of public igno- 
miny, from the fury of a tyrant master, and 
from the punishment that, even in anticipa- 
tion, checks the warm current of his youthful 
blood, and sends a shivering thrill through 
every nerve and fibre of his trembling frame. 
But he has been instructed by parents whose 
word he cannot doubt, to believe that there 
is a good and gracious God looking down 
upon the children of earth, caring for their 
sufferings, listening to their prayers, teach- 
ing them his holy law, and encouraging 
them to regard the performance of it above 
all the enjoyments afforded by the world; 
and knowing that a strict adherence to the 
truth is one of the essential points of that 
law, the penitent child, even with the tears 
of anguish on his cheek, pronounces the de- 
cisive word of truth which seals his sen- 
tence upon earth—the word which rejoicing 
angels bear to the courts of heaven, as the 
richest tribute humanity can lay before the 
throne of its Creator. 

These are but single instances, chosen 
out from a mass of evidence, clearly proving 
that religion in its influence upon the affec- 
tions, in its intimate connexion with those 
important scenes and circumstances of life, 
from which we derive the greatest pain or 
pleasure, in short, in its supreme dominion 
over the human heart, is, above all other 
subjects, that which possesses the highest 
claim to the regard of ths poet; not only as 
being most productive of -ntellectual grati- 
fication, but most worthy of him who aspires 
to the right exercise of the loftiest attributes 
of mind. 

A superficial view of religion may lead to 
the popular and vulgar notion, that its prac- 
tical duties are incompatible with true refine- 
ment of feeling, and elevation of thought ; 
but is not that the most genuine refinement 
which penetrates into the distant relations of 
things, and cements, by mental association, 
the visible and material—the familiar or 
the gross, with powerful impressions of mor- 
al excellence, and beauty, and happiness? 
Is not that the most elevated range of thought 
which combines the practical and temporal 


| 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


affairs of men, with the eternal principles 
upon which the world is established and 
governed? » 

We know of nothing that can so fully and 
so beautifully adorn the ordinary path of life, 
as religion; because it imparts a spiritual es- 
sence to all our customary actions and pur- 
suits, in which the slightest portion of good 
and evil is involved. We can imagine no- 
thing to exceed in tenderness the merciful 
dealing of our heavenly Father with his er- 
ring and rebellious creatures; and as there is 
nothing to equal the perfection of the Divine 
character, so there is no sublimity comparable 
to that of his nature. Noris this all. We 
have said that poetry must come home to 
our own bosoms in order to be truly felt, and 
religion teaches us that we have a portion 
in everlasting life—an inheritance in eterni- 
ty—that the hopes and the fears which stim- 
ulate our actions, the powers and the ener- 
gies with which we are endowed, are not 
merely given us for the brief purposes of 
temporal existence—to play their little part 
upon this sublunary stage—to animate frail 
creatures that must perish in the tomb, but 
as links woven in with the great chain of 
being to be unfolded in a sphere without 
limitations, in a “ world without end.” 

We would not depreciate the freeness, and 
the fulness of the benefits of religion, by say- 
ing that the poet has a participation in their 


|| delights, beyond that enjoyed by others; be- 


| 


i| hesitation in 


H 


cause we reverently believe the nature of 
religion to be such as to adapt it to every 
understanding, render it available in every 
condition of humanity, and sustaining, and 
consolatory to every heart. But we haveno 
pronouncing it impossible for 
the poet to reach the same intellectual height, 
without the aid of religion, as when he soars 
on angels’ wings up to the gates of heaven 
—to touch the strings of human feeling so 
powerfully, as when his hand is bathed in 
the pure fountains of eternal truth. 

How for instance would he expatiate up- 
on 2eauty or excellence, if they had no arche- 
types in heaven? How would he describe 


the calamities which tear up the root of do- 


mestic peace, and agonize the tortured bo- 
som, if neither prayer nor appeal were wrung 


out by such wretchedness, and directed to 
| spriritual power by whom the calamity 


might be averted? How would he solem- 
nize the vow, or seal the blessing, or ratify 
the curse, without the sanction of divine au- 
thority ? or how might his soul aspire to the 
sublime, without expanding its wings in the 
regions of eternity ? 

No; there is nothing which the poet need 
reject in the religion of the Bible, or the 
religion of the heart; but rather let him seek 
its benignant and inspiring influence, as a 
light to his genius, a stimulus to his imagin- 
ation, a guide to his taste, a fire to his ar- 
dour, an impetus to his power, and a world 
thrown open to his enjoyment. 


ee 


4 


IMPRESSION. 


HiTHERTO we have bestowed our attention 
upon what essentially belongs to poetry, as 
a medium for receiving and imparting the 
highest intellectual enjoyment. We now 
come to the qualifications for composing 
poetry—the fundamental characteristics of 
the poet. All persons of cultivated under- 
standing, endowed with an ordinary share 
of sensibility, are more or less capable of 
feeling what is poetical; but that all, even 
amongst those who attempt it, are not equal 
to writing poetry, is owing to their deficiency 
in some or all of the following qualifica- 
tions :—capacity of receiving deep impres- 
sions — imagination — power — and taste. 
These qualifications we shall now consider 
separately, beginning with the first, which 
for want of a better term, I have called 
impression. 

We have already seen how poetry derives 
its existence from the association of ideas, 
as well as howsuch associations must arise 
out of impressions, and it follows as a natu- 
ral consequence, that if this be necessary to 
enable a man to feel poetry, it is still more 
so to qualify him for writing it. Impressions 
are, in fact, the secret fund from whence the 
poet derives his most brilliant thoughts—the 
material with which he works, the colouring 
in which he dips his pencil when he paints 
—the inexhaustible fountain to which he ap- 
plies for the simplicity of nature, and the 
force of truth. . 

We have before observed, that it is im- 


i ee 


| 


| 


| 


possible to trace a great proportion of our 
associations to their original source, because 
we cannot recall the impressions made upon 
our mind in infancy; but we know that in 
that early stage of life. when we were most 
alive to sensation, all the impressions which 
we did receive, must have been connected 
with pain or pleasure, and that hence arise 
preference and antipathy, hope and fear, 
love and hatred. We have the authority 
of Dr. Johnson, as well as that of our own 
observation for asserting, that children are 
not naturally grateful, and from the history 
of man in a barbarous state, we learn that 
he is not naturally henest. The reason is, 
that both the infant and the savage have 
received pleasure from self-indulgence, but 
not from the exercise of any moral duty; 
and therefore it is evident that greater matu- 
rity of mind is necessary for the formation 
of those ideas which arise out of impressions 
made by the social intercourse of mankind. 
Yet in a very early state of existence we are 
capable of deriving more simple ideas from 
impressions whose strength and durability 
constitute the riches of the poet. 

Perhaps the first of this description is, the 


Fe Se ch te ee cia ice” St estates ec A A ete la eR a 


idea of power, naturally arising in the mind 
of a child, from the bodily force by which its 
most violent attempts at resistance are 
easily overcome. But in order to be deeply 
impressed with this idea, it is necessary that 
we should have witnessed some manifesta- 
tion of power beyond the reach of man’s ut- 
most capabilities, and this we behold in the 
tremendous violence of the winds, the rage 
of the ocean, the cataract, or the volcano. 
The idea of number multiplied to infinity 
comes next, and this it is reasonable to sup- 
pose may originate in the contemplation of 
| the stars. We may not be able to recall to 
our remembrance the time when our own 
_minds were first awakened to a conception 
of the splendour of the heavens; but we 
have an opportunity of observing in others 
the rapt and astonished gaze with which 
they first regard the stars in reference to 
their number, and how the opening mind 
‘expands as one after another of these 
nightly suns rises, and dawns upon it—first 
seen in separate points of light—tnen in 
groups—then multitudes—then fields span- 
gied all over with shining glory—then wider 


| 


i 


IMPRESSION. 


149 


fields—and so on, until at last the idea of 
number loses all limitation, and the child 
conceives for the first time, that of infinity. 

From the contemplation of a widely ex- 
tended view, we have unqustionably de- 
rived our notion of space. Why this idea, 
arising out of an incalculable number of 
objects, in themselves ordinary and familiar, 
should obtain the character of sublime, it is 
not easy to determine, unless it be that the 
same expansion of mind is as necessary to 
receive these two impressions, as to contem- 
plate the nature of unlimited power, which 
is universally accompanied w + sensations 
of awe, and sometimes of terror. 

Duration is generally the last which the 
mind receives of these impressions, and 
when extended to eternity, it is the most 
important. This idea does not arise like 
that of infinity, from objects of calculation, 
nor like power, from any connexion with 
impulse or sensation; but steals quietly up- 
on the mind from deep and earnest medita- 
tion, sometimes upon objects which have 
existed from time immemorial, sometimes 
upon those which will exist for ages yet to 
come. We gaze upon the ivied walls of 
the ruined edifice, whose very structure 
bears evidence of the different manners, 
customs and occupations of those who once 
surrounded the now deserted hearth, We 
walk into the spacious banqueting-room 
whose walls once echoed to the songs of 
festivity or triumph, and there the bat holds 
nightly converse with the owl. We listen 
to the rush of the evening breeze amongst 
the deep dark foliage of the firmly-rooted 
irees, which have arisen out of seeds scat- 
tered by the wandering winds amongst the 
desolation of fallen magnificence. EKventhen 
the pile must have been a ruin, and we see 
by the broken pillar whose base is buried in 
the earth, what an accumulation of matter 
time must have strewn around it, to raise 
the level of the surrounding earth, trom its 
foundation to its centre. We look through 
the wide yawning aperture that seenis to 
have been a richly-ornamented window, 
and there, where the gallant knight once 
laid his conquering sword at the feet of 
smiling beauty, where the minstrel tuned his 
lyre,and sung the praise of heroesnow forgot- 
ten, where the snow white hand of the court- 


ee PTET LIT DOPE IS LTA AT TO ATCT 
ae 


6 


Prot 4 ‘ = : s = 


150 


upon the sloping lawn, marking the long 
shadows of the stately trees, of which nei- 
ther root nor branch remain ; now the rade 
nettle rears his head, the loose bramble 


| ly dame was wont to rest as she looked forth 


broken arch, birds of dark omen, inhabitants 
of desolation, pass to and fro on dusky wing, 
and the loathsome toad, and poisonous ad- 
der creep in amongst the shattered fragments 
of sculptured stone and mouldering marble, 
to find themselves a hiding place and a home. 
As we contemplate all this, the mind is natu- 
rally carricd back to the time when these 
emblems of deeay had their begianng. We 
think that there were ruins then; that 
ages still more remote had theirs ; and thus 
as we travel through the dim obscurity of 
pre-exisient time, our retrospective view at 
length fades and is lost in the sublime idea 
of uncreated power. 

Or we look onward from the present time 
—on—oa, to a mysierions futurity, when we 
and ours shall be forgotten. We cannot 
'| build up without refleeting that there is also 
| a time to pull down, and in laying the foun- 
|| dation of an edifice, or in witnessing its erec- 
tion, it is natural te ask, “ Where shall I be 
| when of these stones not one remains upon 
| another?” We plant the sapling oak, and 
| watch it year by year, slowly extending in 
| iis circumference and its height, and we 
| think of the time when children now unborn 
} 


shall play beneath its shade, when we shall 
| have been gathered to the only place of 
earthly rest, and when the very soil in which 
that tree is planted, shall have become the 
|| property of those who never heard our 
names. It is by extending such reflections 
as these ad infinitum, that imagination 
passes from small to great, from infancy to 
age, and from time to eternity ; and thus we 
form all the idea that we are capable of 
conceiving of that which has no beginning, 
and can never end. 

| There is one other mental conception— 
| the idea of a God, intimately connected with 
| those here specified, which mankind have 
| 

H 

| 

| 


endeavoured by every means, natural and 
artificial, reasonable and absurd, pleasing 
and terrible, to introduce into the mind, be- 
| fore the mind is prepared for receiving it; 


and hence follow the unworthy notions, the | 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


| waves in the wind that whistles through the 


by which the majesty of the Divine Being is 
too frequently insulted. 

If we might so speak without preeump- 
tion, we should say, that God, jealous of his 
own honour, had chosen in this instance, 
sometimes to baffle the ingenuity of man, | 
by first throwing open to the human mind, | 
the contemplation of his attributes, and then 
by his own appointed means, inscrutable to | 
our perceptions, concentrating them all in 
one sublime and ineffable thought, 3 

| 
| 


irreverent language, and the low attributes, 


fiashes through the brain like a quickening | 
fire, and bursts upon the soul with the light 
of life. 

I would still be understood to speak poeti- 
eally. I know that there are modes of rea- 
soning by which men of sound understand- 
ing must almost necessarily arrive at a be- 
lief in the existence of a God. But rational 
evidence, and the evidence of sensation, are 
two different things. We often assent to 
facts of which we do not feel the truth. | 
And itis this feeling as it gives vitality to | 
belief, that I would call the impression from 
which we derive the most lasting and dis- 
tinct idea of a God. Yet at the same time 
that I speak of such impressions as evidence, 
which the Divine Being vouehsafes to give 
us of his own existence, I speak of them 
only as corroborating evidence following 
that of reason, and of no sort of value where 
they directly contradict it. Separate from 
the mental process by which the idea is first 
conceived, this evidence refers rather to the 
state of the mind as a recipient; and such 
impressions as are here spoken of poetically,. | 
may therefore, exist independent of rational 
conviction. Without such conviction, how- 
ever, they are liable to lead to the most egre- 
gious and fatal errors, but with it they es- 
tablish truth, and render it indelible. 

It is of much less importance to the poet, 
than to the philosopher, whether impres- 
sions of this abstract nature, arise out of the 
immediate operation of divine power, or 
from a combination of conclusions previously 
drawn, which the mind is often able to 
make use of without being aware of their 
existing in any rational or definite form, and 
which we can never fully understand, unless 
the study of the humar mind should be re- 
duced to a practical science. The poet : 


IMPRESSION. 


may often use expressions which accord with 
the former notion, just as he would describe 
the hand of Omnipotence covering the 
mountains with eternal snow, but let us 
hope that he is wise enough seriously to en- 
tertain. the latter; and if sometimes. he 
makes a sudden transition from effects to 
causes, without regarding the intermediate 
space, let us do him the justice to believe 
that it is from the very sublimity of his own 
genius, which stoops not to take cognizance 
of means, but rather in searching out the 
principles of sensation, thought, and action, 
plunges at once into the fountain of life, and 
refers immediately to the great first Cause. 
Thus the full and entire conviction of the 
being of a God, may come upon us pre- 
cisely as God pleases, and force itself upon 
our hearts in the way which he sees meet to 
appoint. Galen is said to have received 
this impression from unexpectedly meeting 
in his solitary walks with a human skeleton ; 
and just as easily may the infidel be re- 
claimed from his ignorance by any other 


means adapted io the peculiar tone and- 


temper of his own mind—by the chanting 
of a hymn, or the peal of rolling thunder— 
by the prayer of an innocent child, or the 
destruction of a powerful nation—by the 
gathering of the plentcous harvest or the 
desolation of the burning desert—by the 
faded beauty of a falling leaf, or the splen- 
dour of the starry heavens—by the secret 
anguish of the broken spirit, or by accumu- 
lated honours and unmerited enjoyment— 
by the blessings of the poor, or the denun- 
ciations of the powerful—by the visitations 
of divine love, or by the terrors of eternal 
jadgmeat—in short, by the natural sensa- 
tions of pain or pleasure, arising from any 
of the causes immediate or remote, by 
which the attributes of Deity may be forced 
upon the perceptions of the soul, and con- 
centrated in the idea of one indivisible, and 
omnipotent Being. 

Subsequent to the idea of a God, arise 
distinct perceptions of moral duty—of what 
we owe to him as the creator and preserver 
of the world, as well as the founder of the 
laws by which our lives ought to be regu- 
lated. We have before observed that, im- 
mediate self-gratification is the earliest mo- 


sensible that this motive must give place to 
others of a more remote and abstract nature. 
With the first impressions of pain and plea- 
sure, we learned to separate evil from good. 
We now learn that there is a deeper evil to 
which pleasure is frequently the prelude, 
and a higher good which can sometimes on- 
ly be attained by passing through a medium 
of pain. " 

Our first strong impressions of a moral na- 
ture are of beauty and excellence. “We 
should call beauty merely physical, did it 
not comprehend what belongs to fitness and 
harmony, as well as to colour and form. 
In ail that is exquisite in art we are etruck 
with the idea of beauty in connexion with 
others; as, with all that is magnificent in 


nature we combine with the same idea, those 


of motion or sound, form or colour, light or 
shade, splendour or majesty, utility or pow- 


ser; but we are perhaps never more im- 


pressed with mere beauty than when con- 
templating a flower—gorgeous in its colour 
as the resplendent heavens—pure in its 
whiteness as the winter’s snow. The eye 
that can gaze without admiration upon a 
flower, deserves to be prematurely dim; for 
what is there on earth more intensely beau- 
tiful! and yet how frail! so that scarcely 
does the breath of praise pass over it, than 
its delicate petals begin to droop, and Its 
stem that once stood proudly in the field 
or the garden, bends beneath the fading glory 
which it bears. Yet the same flower, sup- 
ported by the hand of nature, and sheltered 
beneath her maternal wing, burst forth in 
the wilderness, where we are too delicate 
to tread, opened its gentle eye full under- 
neath the sunbeams from which we turn 
away, rested on the thorns which startle us 
at every step, poured forth its odours up- 
on the blast from which we shrink, drank in 
the dews which chill our coarser natures, en- 
dured the darkness of the solitary nignt from 
which we fly with terror, and derived its 
nourishment from the common earth, which 
we spura, until we learn to value the latest 
friend whose arms are open to receive us. 
Excellence, like beauty, is of kinds so va- 
rious, and degrees so numerous, that it is 
only by a combination of impressions that 
we arrive at the idea of excellence in its ab- 


tive upon which we act, but we now become | stract nature; but when once formed, it con- 


re 


ee 


Seen en ene ee ne ee ee nea eecinnbibinntilitin Den ehIeDbic NORD inet nad 


stitutes the point of reference, and the cli- 
max of all that we admire and love; and 
therefore it is of the utmost importance to 
the poet, that his standard of excellence 


| should not only be acknowledged as such by 
' the enlightened portion of mankind, but that 


it should be as high as the human mind can 
reach, and at the same time so deeply graven 
upon his own heart, that neither ambition, 


hope, nor fear, nor any other passion or af- 


fection to which he is liable, can obliterate 
the impression, or supplant it by another. 

All our ideas of intellectual as well as 
moral good are of a complex nature, arising 
not so much out of impressions made by 
things themselves, as by their relations, as- 
sociations, and general fitness or unfitness 
one to another; hence it follows that the 
mind must be naturally qualified for receiv- 
ing decided impressions of simple ideas, so 
as afterwards to make use of them, in draw- 
ing clear deductions, by comparing them 
one with another, and combining them to- 
gether. How, for instance, would the poet 
describe the general influence of evening 
twilight, if he had never really felt its tran- 
quillizing power as it extends over the ex- 
ternal world, and reaches even to the heart ? 
or how would he be able to convey a clear 
idea of the virtue of gratitude, if he had never 
known the expansion of generous feeling, 
the ardent hope of imparting happiness, and 
the disappointment of finding that happiness 
unappropriated, or received with contempt ? 

That there are men of common percep- 
tions, who “travel from Dan to Beersheba,” 
saying that all is barren, and that there are 
men of more than ordinary talent, who, de- 
ficient neither in imagination, power, nor 
taste, are yet unable to write poetry, is 
evidently owing to their want of capability 
for receiving lively impressions; for wherever 
such impressions exist, with sufficient ima- 
gination to arrange and combine them so as 
to create fresh images, with power to em- 
body them in forcible words, and taste to 
render those words appropriate and pure, 
either poetry itself, or highly poetical prose, 
must be the natural language of such a 
mind. 

We should say that opportunity for re- 
ceiving agreeable impressions, as well as 
capacity for receiving them deeply, was 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


essential to the poet, were it possible that 
any human bemg, even of moderately cul- 
tivated understanding, commanding the use 
of language, and acquainted with the prin- 
ciples of taste, should have been so entirely 
excluded from all contemplation of what is 
admirable, both in the external world and in 
human nature, as to have conceived no just 
idea either of physical or moral beauty. It 
is however of immense importance to the 
poet that he should have formed an early 
and intimate acquaintance with subjects 
regarded as poetical by the unanimous 


opinion of mankind—that he should have | 


gazed ‘upon the sunset until his very soul 
was rapt in the blaze of its golden glory— 
that he should have lived in the quiet smile 
of the placid moon, and looked up to the 
stars of night, until he forgot his own iden- 
tity, and became like a world of light 
amongst the shining host—that he should 
have watched the silvery flow of murmuring 
water, until his anxious thoughts of present 
things were lulled to rest, and the tide of 
memory rolled on, pure, and clear, and bar- 
monious, as the woodland stream—that he 
should have listened to the glad voices of 
the birds of spring, until his own was min- 
gled with the universal melody of nature. 
and strains of gratitude and joy burst forth 
from his overflowing heart—that he should 
have seen the woods in their summer vesture 
of varied green, and felt how beautiful is 
the garment of nature—that he should have 
found the nest of the timid bird, and ob- 
served how tender its maternal love, and 
how wonderful is the instinct with which the 
frailest creatures are endowed—that he 
should have stood by the wave-beaten shore 
when a galley with full sails swept along 
the foaming tide, and impressed upon the 
tablet of his heart a perfect picture of ma- 
jesty and grace—that he should have wit- 
nessed the tear of agony exchanged for the 
smile of hope, and acknowledged—feelingly 
acknowledged, how blessed are the tender 
offices of merey—that he should have heard 
the cry of the oppressed, and seen the 
breaking of their chains, with the inmost 


chords of his heart’s best feelings thrilling | 
at the shout of liberty—that he should have | 


trembled beneath the desolating storm, and 
hailed the opening in the tempestuous clouds 


IMAGINATION. 


t 


153 


| from which the mild radiance of returning has been possessed, in an eminent degree, 


peace looked down—that he should have 
bent over the slumbering infant, until his 
imagination wandered from the innocence 
of earth to the purity of heaven—that he 
should have contemplated female beauty in 
ils loveliest, holiest form, and then by a 
slight transition, passed in amongst the an- 
_ gelie choir, and tuned his harp to celebrate 
ils praise, where beauty is the least of the 


| attributes of excellence—in fine, that he 


should have bathed in the fount of nature, 
and tasted of the springs of feeling at their 
different sources, choosing out the sweetest, 
the purest, and the most invigorating, for 
the delight of mankind, and the perpetual 
refreshment of his own soul. 

As in society itis impossible to know 
whether any particular language has been 
learned until we hear it spoken, so it would 
be difficult to single out individual instances 
of the existence or the absense of deep im- 


| their faculty to light. 


pressions; because a mind may be fully en- 
dowed with this first principle of poetry, and 
yet without the proper medium for making 
it perceptible to others, we may consequently 
never be aware of the presence of such a 
capability even where it does exist. It will, 
however, eminently qualify the possessor 
for feeling and admiring poetry, and thus it 
is but fair to suppose, that there are many 
individuals undistinguished in the multitude, 
who possess this faculty in the same degree 
as the most celebrated poet, but who for 


|| want of some or all of the three remaining 


requisites, have never been able to bring 
Where, amongst the 
four requisites for writing poetry, this 
alone is wanting, however highly cultivated 
the mind of the writer may be, and how- 
ever mature his judgment, this single de- 


|| ficiency will have the effect of rendering 


his poetry monotonous and unimpressive, 
even where it is, critically speaking, free 
from faults; because it is impossible that he 
should be able to convey to others clear or 
forcible ideas of what he has never felt 


| clearly or forcibly himself. Dr. Johnson 


was a poet of this description; and on the 
other hand, instead of pointing out instances, 
we have no hesitation in asserting that 
every man who has written impressively, 


“ ingeniously, powerfully, and with good taste, 


—_— 


of the faculty of receiving and remembering 
impressions. : 


IMAGINATION. 


IMAGINATION is the next qualification es- 
sential in the poetic art. As a faculty, im- 
agination is called creative, because it forms 
new images out of materials with which 
impression has stored the mind, and multi- 
plies such images to an endless variety by 
abstracting from them some of their quali- 
ties, and adding others of a different nature ; 
but that imagination does not actually create 
original and simple ideas, is clear, from the 
fact that no man by ihe utmost stretch of 
his rational faculties, by intense thought, or 
by indefatigable study, can imagine a new 
sense, a new passion, or a new creature. 
Imagination, therefore, holds the same rela- 
tion to impression, as the finished picture 
does to the separate colours with which the 
artist works. Judiciously blended, these 
colours produce all the different forms and 
tints observable in the visible world; and 
by arranging and combining ideas previously 
impressed upon the mind, and shaping out 
such combinations into distinct characters, || 
imagination produces all the splendid ima- 
gery by which the poet delights and aston- 
ishes mankind. When he describes an ob- 
ject new to his readers, itis seldom new to 
himself, or if new as a whole, it is familiar 
in its separate parts. If for instance he 
sings the praises of maternal love, he refers 
to the memory of his own mother, and the 
strong impression left upon his mind, by her 
solicitude and watchful care—if the song cf 
the nightingale, he recails the long summer 
nights, ere forgetfulness had become a bless- 
ing, when to listen was more happy than to 
sleep—if the northern wind, he hears again 
the hollow roar amongst the leafless boughs, 
that was wont to draw in the domestic circle 
around his father’s hearth—if the woodland 
music of the winding stream, he knows its 
liquid voice by the rivulet in which he 
bathed his infant feet—if the tender offices of 
friendship, he has enjoyed them too feelingly 


ee 


een erat I I eg ge 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


———— 


154 


to forget their influence upon the soul—or 
if the anguish of the broken heart, who has 
not the transcript of sorrow written even on 
the earliest page of life ? 

These are instances in which the poet 
draws immediately from experience, and 
where his task is only to transmit to others 
the impression made upon his own mind; 
but there are other cases where the idea con- 
veyed is derived from a combination of im- 
pressions, and this is more exclusively the 
work of imagination. 

The poet who has never seen a lion may 
use the image of one in his verses, with 
almost as much precision as the poet who 
has; because he knows that its attributes 
are courage, ferocity, and power, and he 
has been impressed with ideas of these 
attributes in other objects. He knows that 
its roar is loud, and deep, and terrific, and 
he has distinct impressions of the meaning 
of these words also. Its colour, form, and 
general habits, he becomes acquainted with 
by the same means; and thus he makes 
bold to use the name and the character of 
the lion to ornament his verse., In the same 
manner he describes the sandy desert, and 
with yet greater precision; because he has 
only to add to the sands of the sea shore, 
with which he is perfectly familiar, the 
two qualities of extent and burning heat, 
and he sees before him at once the wide 
and sterile wastes of Arabian solitude. Or 
if the human countenance be the subject of 
his muse, and he endeavours to invent one 
that shall be new to himself as well as to 
his readers, it is by borrowing different fea- 
tures from faces which have left their im- 
press on his mind: and upon the same prin- 
ciple he proceeds through all that mental 
process, which is called creating images, 
and which gives to the works of the highly 
imaginative, the character of originality ; 
because from the wide scope and variety of 
their impressions, they are able to select 
such diversified materials, that when com- 
bined, we only see them as a whole, without 
being aware of any previous acquaintance 
with their particular parts. . 

Where distinct impressions, power, and 
taste are present in full force, and imagina- 
tion alone, out of the four requisites, is 
wanting, we speak of the poet as one who 


borrows from the thoughts of others, or one 
whose images are too ordinary and common 
place to interest the reader; because, either 
limited by the nature of his own mind to a 
narrow range of ideas, or indolent in the 
search of materials necessary for his work, 
he has laid hold of such as fell most readily 
within his grasp, and these being few and 
familiar, and unskilfully arranged, we recog- 
nise at once the gross elements of the com- 
pound, and see from whence they have been 
obtained. 

Deficiency of imagination is the reason 
why some, who would otherwise have been 
our best poets, are mannerists. It is true 
they may be so from partiality, almost 
amounting to affection, for some peculiar 
character or style of writing; but that they 
are blindly addicted to this fault, is much 
more frequently owing to their want of ca- 
pability to conceive any other mode of con- 
veying their ideas. - 

Lord Byron was unquestionably a writer 
of the former class. From the variety of 
his style, the splendour of his imagery, and 
the brilliant thoughts that burst upon us as 
we read his charmed lines, it is impossible 
to believe that his imagination was incapable 
of any scope, of any height, or any depth, 
to which it might be directed by inclination ; 
but in the characters he portrayed he may 
justly be called a mannerist, because he 
evidently preferred the uniformly dark and 
melancholy ; and chose out from the varied 
impressions of his own life, that sombre hue, 
so deeply harmonizing with majesty and 
gloom, which he spread over every object 
in nature, like the lowering thunder clouds 
above the landscape; varying at times the 
wide waste of brooding darkness, with short- 
lived but brilliant flashes of sensibility, and 
wit, and lively feeling, like the lurid streaks 
that shoot athwart the tempestuous sky, 
lighting up the world for one brief moment 
with ineffable brightness, and then leaving 
it to deeper—more impenetrable night. 

As instances of mannerism arising from 
the actual want of imagination, we might 
bring forward a long list of minor poets, as 


well as inferior writers of every description, 


without however descending so low as to 
those who have not consistency of mind 
sufficient for maintaining any particular sys- 


nr et en rR 
eA EA ER RE RE 


| 


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| 


| 
| 
| 
| 


| 


i 


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EST Sa ee Senne 


an en eee 
eee ee 
SS ee 


Si i pee AS 4 


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IMAGINATION. 


tem of thought, or style of composition. 
Yet of imagination, as well as impression, 
we are unable to say decidedly that it does 
not exist, because, like impression, it only 
becomes perceptible to us through the me- 
dium of words; and as all individuals are 
not able to use this medium with force and 
perspicuity, we necessarily lose many of the 
brilliant conceptions of those around us. 
We may however assert as an indisputable 
fact, that poetry of the highest order was 
never yet produccd without the powerful 
exercise of the faculty of imagination. 

‘As a wonderful instance of the force and 
efficacy of imagination, as well as of im- 
pression, power, and taste, we might single 
out Milton, were it not that power is more 
essentially the characteristic of his works. 
He has equals in the other requisites of a 
poet, while in power he stands unrivalled. 

But, supreme in the region of imagination 
is our inimitable Shakespeare; and that he 
is inimitable is-perhaps the greatest proof 
of the perfection of his imaginative powers. 
The heroes of Byron have been multiplied 
through so many copies that we have grown 
weary of the original; but who can imitate 
the characters of Shakespeare? And yet 
how perfectly human is every individual of 
the multitude which he has placed before 
us—so human as to be liked and disliked, 
according to the peculiar cast of mind in the 
persons who pronounce upon them; just in 
the same manner as characters in ordinary 
life attract or repel those with whom they 
come in contact. Every one forms the same 
opinion of the Corsair, because he has a few 
distinctive qualities, by which he is known 
and copied; while no two individuals agree 
upon the character of Hamlet—a character 
of all others perhaps least capable of imita- 
tion. Yet let us ask, is Hamlet less natural 
than Conrad? Quite the reverse. If ever 
the poet’s mind conceived a perfectly origi- 
nal man, it is Hamlet, in whose mysterious 
nature is displayed the most astonishing 
effort of imagination; and yet so true is the 
dark picture to the principles of human 
nature, that we perceive at once the repre- 
sentation of a creature formed after the 
similitude of ourselves. 

The fact is, that though as a whole it 


'| stands alone, even in the world of fiction, in 


———— 


os TT I nN ee ee ee ee Fe ee 
a 


— 
co 
i) | 


all its varied parts it consists of the ordinary 
and familiar features of humanity; and in 
thinking of this wayward and capricious be- 
ing, whose accumulated wrongs and mise- 
ries have almost stupified his energies, whose 
melancholy, natural or induced, has con- 
verted the “brave, o’erhanging firmament” 
into “a pestilent congregation of vapours,” 
we feel with him in all his weakness, as 
with a man; and for him with all his faults, 
as fora brother. In memory tco, how dis- 
tinct is Hamlet from all the creations of infe- 
rior minds! He seems to occupy a place in 
history, rather than in fiction ; and in search- 
ing out the principles of human feeling, we 
refer to him as to one whose existence was 
real, rather than ideal. ‘This may be said of 
all Shakespeare’s characters, and so power- 
ful is the evidence of truth impressed upon 
them, that where he chooses to depart from 
circumstantial fact, our credence clings to 
him in preference to less imaginative histo- 
rians. , 

Perhaps the most remarkable fact in con- 
nection with the genius of this wonderful 
writer, is the immense variety of his charac- 
ters. In almost all other fictitious writings, 
we recognize the same hero, appearing in 
different forms—sometimes seated on an east- 
ern throne, and sometimes presiding over 
the rude ceremonial of an Indian wigwam ; 
while the same heroine figures in the “sable 
stole” of a priestess, or in the borrowed or- 
naments of a bandit’s bride. But the peo- 
ple of Shakespeare amongst whom we seem 
to live, are in no way beholden to situation 
or costume, for appearing to be what they 
really are. They have an actual identity 
an individuality that would be distinctly per- 
ceptible in any other circumstances, or un- 
der any other disguise. 

One of the favorite painters of our day, or 
rather of yesterday, has but three heads, 
which serve all his purposes—an old man 
with white hair and flowing beard, a Grecian 
female, and a semi-roman hero ; and in the 
same way many of our writers make use of 
three or more distinctions of character—a 
hero and a heroine—a secondary hero to 
thwart their loves—a secondary heroine to 
assist either one party or the other—per- 
haps to play at cross purposes with her mis- 
tress or her friend: and a fool or buffoon, 


’ 


—s 


ee nee Solent prion petcanne anne en a a SS 


i} 


SF 


| 


! 


| likely to be reduced to a dilemma. 


| 


| 


155 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


(who varies least of all,) to rush upon the 
stage when more important personages are 
But in 
Shakespeare even the fools are as motley as 
the garb they wear; and the women, who 
with other writers vary only from the ten- 
der to the heroic, are of all ages, and of all 
distinctions of character and feeling; while 
amongst the immense number of men whom 
he introduces to our acquaintance, there is no 
single instance of greater resemblance than 
we find in real life. Perhaps the nearest 
approach to similarity is in the blundering 
avsurdities of justices of the peace, or coun- 
try magistrates, a class of people with whom 
(“if ancient tales say true”) it is probable 
the poet may have been brought into no very 
pleasing kind of contact, and hence arises 
the vein of satire which flows through every 
description of their conduct and conversa- 
tion. 

Bcyond this, there is another striking proof 
of the wonderful extent of Shakespeare’s 
imaginative powers. Throughout the whole 
of his plays we never recognize the man 
himself. In the works of almost every other 
writer, the author appears before us, and we 
become in some measure acquainted with his 
peculiar tone of mind and individual cast of 
character ; but Shakespeare is equally at 
home with the gloomy or the gay, the licen- 
tious or the devout, the sublime or the 
familiar, the terrific or the lovely. Wenever 
detect him identifying himself either with 
the characters, or the sentiments of others ; 


'| and though we wonder, and speculate upon 


the mind that could thus play with all the 
feelings of humanzity, Shakespeare himself 
remains invisible and unknown, like a mas- 
ter magician regulating the machinery which 
at the same time conceals his own person, 
and astonishes the world. 

The Tempest is generaily considered the 
most imaginative of Shakespeare’s plays, 


|| and certainly it contains little, in scenery, or 


circumstance, that can be associated with 
ordinary life. In the character of Prospero, 
we are forcibly struck with the originality of 


|| the conception; because it combines what 


is not to be found elsewhere—the art ofa 


' necromancer with the dignity of a man of 


honour and integrity ; and when he lays 


down his magic wand, “unites the spell,” 


and dofls the mantle of enchantment, he 
stands before us, not debased and powerless, 
but full of the native majesty of a noble- 

man and a prince. To his daughter, the 
Ae and spiritual Miranda, one of our most 
talented, yet most feminine writers,* has so 
lately done, perhaps more than justice, that 
nothing can be added to her own exqui- 
sitely ‘poetical description of the island 
nymph, who has “sprung up into beauty 
beneath the eye of her father, the princely 
magician; her companions the rocks and 
woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds 
and the silent stars; her playmates the 
ocean billows that stoop their foamy crests, 
and run rippling to kiss her feet.” 

Of Ariel, the “delicate Ariel,” that most 
ethereal essence that ever aad the form 
of beauty in the glowing visions of imagin- 
ation, what can we say? so entirely and 
punely spiritual is this aerial being, that we 
know not whether to speak of him as call- 
ing up “spirits from the vasty deep,” rolling 
the thunder clouds along the stormy heav- 
ens, whelming the helpless mariners in the 
foaming surge, and dashing their “ goodly 
bark” upon the echoing rocks or if spect 
gentle, willing, and obedient, hastening on 
ready service at a moment’s bidding, and ' 
asking for the love, as well as the approba- || 
tion, of the island lord. We know of no- 


thing within the range of ordinary thought | 


from which the character of Ariel can be 
borrowed, and certainly it is the nearest in 
approach to a perfectly original conception, 
of any which in our literature adorns the 
page of fiction. 

Of Caliban, too monstrous for a man— 
too fiendish for a beast, it may also be said 
that he is entirely the creature of imagina- 
tion; and indeed throughout the whole of 
this astonishing drama, the mind of the au- 
thor seems to have taken the widest possi- 
ble range of which human genius is capa- 
ble. The very existence of these beings upon 
a solitary island, isolated and shut out from 
human fellowship, involves, in difficulties as 
strange as insurmountable to ordinary pow- 
ers, the usual course of thought and action, 
and renders it infinitely more reconcilable to 


* Mrs. Jameson. 


| 


our prejudices, that Prospero, in such a situa- 
tion, 


; “ with the stars, 
And the quick spirits of the universe” 

should hold “ his dialogues.” | 

How beautiful, amidst all the complicated 
machinery of -her father’s magic, is the deli- 
cate simplicity of Miranda! She wonders 
not at the prodigies around her, because her 
trust and her love are centered in her father, 
and she believes him to have power to dis- 
solve as well as to enforce the spell; ‘yet 
why he should exercise this power for any 
other than humane and gracious purposes, 
she is at a loss to conceive, and therefore 
she ventures to call his attention to the 
wreck of a “brave vessel” which she has 
first seen dashed amongst the rocks, and 
then she adds— 


“ Had I been any God of power, I would 
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e’er 
It should the good ship so have swallow’d, and 
The freighting souls within her.” 


Finding the natural disposition to wonder 
and inquire, just dawning in her mind, 
Prospero thinks it time to explain the myste- 
ry of their situation, and then follows that 
touching and beautiful description of their 
former life, their wrongs, and sufferings, 
which, occasionally interrupted by the jeal- 
ousy of the narrator, lest the attention of his 
child should wander, and by her simple 
ejaculations of wonder and concern, is un- 
paralleled alike for its imaginative charm, 
and for its accordance with the principles of 
nature. For instance, when Miranda is 
questioned by her father whether she can 
remember a time before she came into that 
cell, and whether she can recall such by 
any other house, or person, or image, she 
answers— 


“MIRANDA. 
Pris far off; 
And rather like a dream than an assurance 
That my remembrance warrants: Had I not 
Four or five women once, that tended me? 


PROSPERO. 
Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it 
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else 
In the dark back ward and abysm of time? 
If thou remember’st aught ere thou cam’st here ; 
How thou cam’st here thou may’st. 


MIRANDA. 
But that I do not. 


See > 


IMAGINATION. | 


- PROSPERO. 
Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve years since, 
Thy father was the duke of Milan, and 
A prince of power. 


MIRANDA 


rors of their situation afloat upon the sea, 
how natural and feminine is her reply, 
and his, how full of tender and yet noble 
feeling ! 


“ PROSPERO. 
“In few, they hurried us on board a bark, 
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepar’d 
A rotten carcass of a boat not rigg’d, 
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 
Instinctively had quit it. There they hoist us 
To cry to the sea that roar’d to us; to sigh 
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 
Did us but loving wrong. 


MIRANDA. 


Alack ! what trouble 
Was I then to you! 


PROSPERO. 


O! acherubim 

Thon wast, that did preserve me! Thou didst smile, 
Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 

When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt.” 


Ariel’s description of the tempest raised 
by the command of Prospero, is such as 
none but the liveliest imagination could have 
inspired. 

“ ARIEL. 


, All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come 
To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, 
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
On the curl’d clouds; to thy strong bidding task 
Ariel, and all his quality. 


Sir, are not you my father ?”’ 
Again, when Prospero describes the hor- 


PROSPERO. 


Hast thou, spirit, 
Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee? 


ARIEL. 
To every article. a 
I boarded the king’s ship: now on the beak, 
Now on the waste, the deck, in every cabin, 
I flam’d amazement. Sometimes I’d divide | 
And burn in many places: on the top-mast, | 
The yards, and bolt-sprit, would I flame distinctly, 
Then meet, and join: Jove’s lightnings, the precursors ! 
O’ the dreadful thunder clap, more momentary 
And sight outrunning were not. The fire and cracks 
Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune 
Seem’d to besiege. and make his bold waves tremble, |! 
Yea, his dread trident shake.” ‘ 


After all this, the imperative magician re- 
quires yet farther service, when Ariel, in 
language true to a nature more human than 
his own, meekly reminds his master of the 


158 


promised freedom for which his spirit is ever 
pining. 
“ ARIEL. 


‘“T pray thee: 
Remember, I have done thee worthy service, 
Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d 
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise 
To bate me a full year. 


PROSPERO. 


Dost thou forget i 
From what a torment I did free thee? 


ARIEL. 
No. 
PROSPERO. 


Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the ooze 
Of the salt deep ; 

To run upon the sharp wind of the north; 

To do me business in the veins of the earth, 
When it is bak’d with frost.” 


There is certainly too much of harshness 
and contempt to suit our feelings, in the lan- 
guage which Prospero addresses to his 
“tricksy spirit.” But yet sometimes, when 
Ariel asks of the diligent execution of his 
master’s mission, “ Was’t not well done?” 
and receives a gracious answer full of ap- 
probation; when the magician turns away 
from coarser natures to welcome with smiles 
his invincible messenger in the air; and 
especially when at last he dismisses him, 
with 

“My Ariel, 


This is thy charge; then to the elements 
Be free, and fare thou well!” 
| 


Thus breaking his bondage with the gentle- 
ness of affection; we have only to extend 
our thoughts a little farther beyond the 
sphere of common life, and we feel that a 
spirit, gentle, and pure, and elastic, like that 
of Ariel, would be more than soothed by a 
single word or look of kindness—more than 
rewarded with all it could desire, centred in 
the glorious blessing of liberty. 

Even the monster Caliban has also an 
imagination amongst all his brutalities, or 
how could he thus describe the influence of 
the magic spell, by which his being was 
surrounded ? 


“ Be not afear’d, the isle is full of noises, 
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 
Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments 
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, 
That if I then had wak’d after long sleep, 
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, 
The clouds methought, would open and show riches, 
Ready to drop upon me; that when I waked, 
I cried to dream again.” 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


The following passage, well known te 
every reader, can never become too familiar, 
or lose its poetic and highly imaginative 
charm by repetition: 


——_——“‘ these our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 

Are melted into air, into thin air: 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 

And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not arack behind. We are such stuff 
As dreams are made on, and our little life 

Js rounded with a sleep.”— 


How beautiful, and still imaginative is the 
scene, in which the heart of the magician 
begins to melt for the sufferings of those 
he has been afflicting with retributive jus- 
tice | 


“ Say, my spirit, 
How fares the king and his followers ? 


ARIEL. 

Confined together 
In the same fashion as you gave in charge; 
Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir, 
In the lime grove which weatherfends your cell ; 
They cannot budge, till your release. The king, 
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted ; 
And the remainder mourning over them, 
Brim-full of sorrow and dismay ; but, chiefly, 
Him that you term’d the good old lord, Gonzalo, 
His tears run down his beard, like winter drops 
From eaves of reeds: your charm so strongly works 

’7em, 
That if you now beheld them, your affections 
Would become tender. 


PROSPERO. 
Dost thou think so, spirit? 


ARIEL. 


And mine shall. 

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 

Of their afflictions? and shall not myself, 

One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, 

Passion’d as-they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art ? 

Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the 
quick, 

Yet with my nobler reason, ’gainst my fury 

Do I take part: the rarer action is 

In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, 

The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 

Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel! 

My charms I’]] break, their senses I’]] restore, 

And they shall be themselves. 


& 


ARIEL. 
Vl fetch them, sir. 


PROSPERO. — 
Ye elves, of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; 
And ye, that on the sands with printless foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, 


! 


Mine would, sir, were I human. 
PROSPERO. 
f 


A mt te we an te ne ee ee - 


IMAGINATION. 


149 


When he comes back; you demy-puppets, that 
By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make, 
Whiereot' the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime 
Is it to make midnight mushrooms ; that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew : by whose aid 

(Weak masters though ye be.) I have bedimm’d 
The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, 
And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault 

Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire, and rifled Jove’s stout oak 

With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promontory 
Have I made shake: and by the spurs pluck’d up 
The pine and cedar: graves at my command, 
Have wak’d their sleepers; op’d, and let them forth, 
By my so potent artr But this rough magic 

There abjure: and when I have requir’d 

Some heavenly music, (which even now TI do,) 

To work mine end upon their senses, that 

This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, 

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 

And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 

Pll drown my book.’ 


It is easy to bring proofs of the existence 
of imagination—more easy from the pen of 
Shakespeare than from that of any other 
writer; but what language shall describe its 
power! what hand shall reach to the utmost 
boundary of space and time—from the 


| source of light to the centre of darkness— 
| from the heights of heaven, to the depths of 
| hell, to draw forth the attributes of imagina- 
| tion, and embody them in a visible sign ? 
| Countless as the varieties of human charac- 


ter are those of the nature and office of this 
active principle; and whatever is the ten- 
dency of the mind—to happiness or misery 
—to good or evil, imagination, faithful to the 
impulse of the feelings, ranges through crea- 
tion, collecting sweets or bitters—delicious 
food, or deadly poison. 

This faculty, more than any other, be- 
speaks the progress, or the declension of the 
immortal soul. Like the dove of peace, it 
soars with the spirit in its upward flight— 
like the ominous raven it goes before it in its 
downward | fall. To those who seek for 
beauty and happiness, imagination lifts the 
veil of nature, and discloses all her charms, 
unfolds the rosebud to the morning sun, 
wakens the lark to sing his matins to the 
purple dawn, or folds back the mantle of 
musty clouds, and calls upon the day-beam 
to arise; while those who close their eyes 
upon the loveliness that smiles around them, 
it darkens with a tenfold gloom, sharpening 
the thorns that lie beneath their feet, stun- 
ning the ear with the harsh tumult of dis- 
cordant sounds, rousing the bellowing deep 


with storm and tempest, pouring the waters 
of bitternes upon the pleasant paths of earth, 
and calling upon the troubled elements to 
bring their tribute of despair. 

What then is imagination to the good or 
to the evil? An angel whose protecting 


i 
! 


wings are stretched out above the pathway | 


to the gates of heaven—a demon whose 
ghastly image beckons from precipice to 
gulf—down, down into the fathomless abyss 
of endless night: a gentle visitant, who 
brings a tribute of sweet flowers—a fearful 
harbinger of storms and darkness: a voice 
of melody that sings before us as we jour- 
ney on—a cry that tells of horrors yet to 
come: a wreath of beauty shadowing our 
upward gaze—a crown of thorns encircling 
a bleeding brow: a wilderness of verdure 


spread beneath our wandering steps—an | 


adder in that verdure lurking to destroy: 
a comforter whose smile diffuses light—an 
enemy whose envenomed arrow rankles in 
the heart: a joyful messenger going forth 
upon an embassy of love—a hideous mon- 
ster howling at the gates of hell. 

True to the impulse of nature, imagi- 
nation rushes forth with certain aim, and 
never brings home sweets to the malevolent, 
or poison to the pure heart; but penetrating 
into paths unknown, gathers riches for the 
supply of confidence and hope, or collecting 
its evidence from “ trifles light as air,” shar- 
pens the pangs of envy and mistrust. 

There are who treat imagination as a 
light to be extinguished—a power to be 
overcome—a demon to be exorcised. Put 
ask the child who sits with sullen brow he- 
neath unnatural discipline, whether imagi- 
nation is not pointing to flowery paths, and 
stimulating his unbroken will to seek them 
in despite of stripes and tears. Ask the 
selfisolated misanthrope, when lonely and 
unloved he broods over the dark future and 
the joyiess past, whether imagination does 
not call up images of social comfort, of 
friendly intercourse, and “ homefelt delight,” 
which his sad solitudé can never know. 
Ask the pale monk whose daily penance 
drags him to an early grave, whether im- 
agination steals not with the moonbeams 
into his silent cell, whispering of another 
heaven than that of which he reads—a hea- 
ven even upon earth, to which a broken vow, 


| 
| 
| 


| 
| 
| 


/; : 
i 


a church in arms, a name struck out from 


the community of saints, are in comparison. 


as nothing. Ask the criminal at the gallow’s 
foot, when chains, and judges, and penitence 
and priests, have done their utmost to fortify 
his soul for its last mortal struggle, whether 
imagination does not paint the picture of 
his cottage in the wood, with her whose 
prayers he has neglected, fondly watching 
for his return, and whether the voices of his 
children come not on the wandering gale, 
as they lift their innocent hands to heaven, 
and bless their father in their evening hymns. 

Yes; and the stern moralist, who would 
strike out imagination from the soul of man, 
must first extinguish the principle of life. 
What then remains? That those who have 
the conduct of the infant mind, should seek to 
stamp it with a living impress of the loveli- 
ness of virtue, and the deformity of vice; 
and that the passions and affections should 
be so disciplined, that imagination, the busy 
faculty which must, and will exist, and act, 
either for happiness or misery, for good or 
evil, may bring home to the hungry soul 
food fit for the nourishment of an immortal 
being, and dispense from out the fulness of 
a grateful heart, the richest tribute man can 
offer at the throne of God. 


SEE 


POWER. 


Power, in connexion with the art of writ- 
ing poetry, admits of two distinctions—as it 
relates to language and to mind. The 
former, however, is always dependent upon 
and subservient to the latter; but the power 
of mind may exist where there is little or no 
facility in the use of appropriate “words. 
Were it possible that powerful language 
could proceed from an imbecile mind, the 
effect would be, that of heaping together 
ponderous words, and incongruous images, 
so as to extend and magnify confusion, 
without rendering any single thought im- 
pressive. | 

That the force of our ideas must depend 
in great measure upon the strength of our 
impressions, is as clear, as that the vividness 
of a picture must depend upon the colours 
in which it is painted; but in addition to 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


impression, there is a tide of feeling which 
flows through the mind of man, in different 
degrees of velocity and depth, awakening 
his imagination, stimulating his energies, 
and supporting him under every intellectual 
effort. This tide of natural feeling obtains 
the character of enthusiasm, or power, ac- 
cording to the concomitants with which it 
operates. Ifconnected with great sensibility, 
and liveliness of imagination, without clear 
perceptions, sound judgment, or habits of 
deep reasoning, it is with strict propriety 
called enthusiasm; and as such works won- 
ders amongst mankind. Indeed we are in- 
debted to enthusiasm for a great proportion 
of what is new in theory, and experimental 
in practice ; as well as for most of the aston- 
ishing instances of valour, enterprize, and 
zeal with which the page of history is enliv- 
ened and adorned. But enthusiasm, while 
it partakes of the nature of power in its first 
impulse, is essentially different in its opera- 
tion. Enthusiasm in action aims at one 
point of ardent desire, and regards neither 
time, nor space, nor difficulty, nor absurdity, 
in attaining it; while true mental power, in 
strict alliance with the highest faculties 
of the mind, is the impetus which forces 
them into action, so as to accomplish its 
purpose by the concentrated strength of 
human intellect directed to an attainable 
object. 

When this principle is diffused through 
the medium of language, it imparts a portion 
of its own nature, commanding conviction, 
stimulating ardour, and rousing determined 
action; or, bursting upon the poetic soul 
like sunshine through the clouds of morning, 


it opens the book of nature, and reveals a | 


new world of light and loveliness, and glory. 
It creates not only conviction and approval, 
but actual sensation; and thrills through 
the awakened feelings, like those tremendous 
manifestations of physical force, which by 
the combined agency of different elements 
produce the most wonderful, and sometimes 
the most calamitous results. 


a A a i 
a a a LT I EE a EE SE DLS SS TE LE 


Were it possible that in any human mind, || 


its faculties could have a complete and evi- 
dent existence and yet lie dormant, we 
should say of such a mind that power alone 
was wanting ; but since there must be some 
power to stimulate the slightest voluntary 


POWER. 


161, 


act, we must speak of this faculty as being 
always present, and existing in a greater or 
a less degree. Persons deficient in this fac- 
ulty and no other, are always content to 
imitate; and as a proof that they posstss 
the other requisites for successful exertion, 
they sometimes imitate with great ability 
and exactness, while they shrink from the 
very thought of attempting any thing with- 
out a model, from an internal consciousness 
of inability. That many venture to strike 
out into new paths without attaining any 
thing like excellence, is owing to the want 
of some other mental quality ; and that some 
continue to pursue such paths to their own 
shame, and the annoyance of their fellow 
creatures, arises from their enthusiasm, not 
‘from their power. Yet while many wander 
on in this eccentric course, without ever 
being aware of their inability to succeed, 
we believe that no man ever yet voluntarily 
commenced a deliberate undertaking, with- 
out some internal evidence of power, where 
it really did exist. A sudden effort is no test, 
because time is not allowed for the mind to 
examine its own resources; but the man 
who has this evidence, will work out his 
determined way, though all the world should 
pronounce him incompetent, and exclaim at 
his absurdity. 

It may be asked, if this evidence always 
accompanies the possession of power, how 
is it that certain individuals have not been 
aware of its existence until circumstances 
have called forth their energies? I answer, 
it is the test alone which brings this confi- 
dence to light; but even these individuals, 
for any thing which history tells us to the 
contrary, may have had in their private 
walk precisely the same sensations on com- 
mencing any trifling undertaking, as after- 
wards accompanied their more public and 
splendid career. We are not told with what 
energy or skill Cincinnatus cultivated his 
farm, but we have no proof that he did not 
feel the same consciousness of power in 
conducting his agricultural pursuits, as in 
regulating the affairs of the commonwealth 
of Rome. Still it would be absurd to main- 
tain that power always exists in the same 
mind in an equal degree. There are physi- 
cal as well as other causes why this should 


a ee ee eee ee 


| 


not be the case. There must to every indi- 
vidual, liable to human weakness and infir- 
mity, be seasons when merely to think 
definitely requires an effort—when desire 
fails, and the grasshopper becomes a bur- 
den ; but when the poet speaks of the bliss- 
ful moment of inspiration, we suppose it to 
be that in which all his highest faculties are 
in agreeable exercise, at the same time that 
the operations of mental power are un- 
impeded. 

Amongst our poets, those who display the 
greatest power of mind, are Milton, Pope, 
and Young. Had Young possessed the 
requisite of taste, he would perhaps have 
rivalled even Milton in power; but such is 
his choice of images and words, that by the 
frequent and sudden introduction of hetero- 
geneous and inferior ideas, he nullifies what 
would otherwise be sublime, and by break- 
ing the chain of association, strikes out, as 
it were, the key-stone of the arch. Nor is 
this all. The ponderous magnitude of his 
images, heaped together without room for 
adjustment in the mind, resembles rather 
the accumulation of loose masses of unce- 
mented granite, than the majestic mountain, 
of which each separate portion helps to 
constitute a mighty whole. 


Still we 4 
acknowledge of this immortal poet, that his 


a a ee ee oe TT 


iEeer HET Eetete ah TEE | | 


path was in the heavens, and that his soul |; 
was suited to the celestial sphere in which 
it seemed to live and expand as in its native 
element. We can feel no doubt that his 
own conceptions were magnificent as the 
stars amongst which his spirit wandered, 
and had his mode of conveying these con- 
ceptions to the minds of others been equal 
to their own original sublimity, he would | 
have stood pre-eminent amongst our poets 
in the region of power. 

In order to prove that the poetry of Young 
is too massive and complex in its imagery 
to be within the compass of natural and 
ordinary association, it is unnecessary to 
quote many instances. Those who are most 
familiar with his writings—even his greatest 
admirers, must acknowledge, that in one 
line of his works, they often meet with mat- 
ter, which if diffused and poetically enlarged 
upon, would fill pages, better calculated to 
please, as well as to instruct. 


asa 


162 


“How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man! 
How passing wonder He who made him such! 
Who centr’d in our make such strange extremes! 
From different natures, marvellously mix’d, 
Connexion exquisite of different worlds ! 
Distinguish’d link in being’s endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity !” 


Thus far the mind may keep pace with 
the writer, and, especially by the last two 
lines, must be impressed with ideas at once 
clear, imaginative, and sublime. Those 
which immediately follow are less happy. 


‘“ A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorb’d! 
Though sullied and dishonour’d, still divine! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 

An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! 
Helpless immortal! insect infinite ! 

A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, 
And in myself am lost.’??—— 


One instance more, and we turn to pas- 
sages of a different character. 


*“ Lorenzo, blush af terror for a death 
Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers, 
Where nectars sparkle, angels minister, 
And more than angels share, and raise, and crown, 
And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.” 


It is really a relief to pass on from this 
laborious collection of disjointed ideas, to 
instances of more perfect sublimity, which 
also abound in the works of the same poet. 
What can exceed in power and beauty his 
first address to Night? 


“ Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 
In rayless majesty now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumb’ring world. 
Silence how dread! and darkness how profound ! 
Nor eye nor list’ning ear an object finds; 
Creation sleeps. ’Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause ; 
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.’’ 


Again, his appeal to the Divine Inspirer 
of his solemn thoughts, is full of majesty and 
power. 


* Man’s Author, End, Restorer, Law, and Judge! 
Thine, all; day thine, and thine this gloomy night, 
With all her wealth, and all her radiant worlds. 
What night eternal, but a frown from thee ? 

What heaven’s meridian glory, but thy smile? 
And shall not praise be thine, not human praise, 
While heaven’s high host in hallelnjahs live! 
O may I breathe no longer than I breathe 
My soul in praise to Him who gave my soul, 
And all her infinite of prospect fair, 
Cut through the shades of hell, great Love, by thee, 
O most adorable! most unadorn’d! 


| Where shall that praise begin which ne’er should end ! 
i Where’er I turn, what claim on all applause! 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


How is night’s sable mantle laboured o’ér, 

How richly wrought with attributes divine! , 
What wisdom shines! whatlove! This midnight pomp, 
This gorgeous arch, with golden words inlaid ! 
Built with divine ambition! nought to thee: 

For others this profusion. Thou, apart, 

Above, beyond, O tell me, mighty Mind! 

Where art thou? shall I dive into the deep ? 

Call to the sun, or ask the roaring winds, 

For their Creator ? shall I question loud 

The thunder, if in that the Almighty dwells ? 

Or holds He furious storms in straiten’d reins, 

And bids fierce whirlwinds wheel his rapid car ? 


“The nameless He, whose nod is nature’s birth ; 
And nature’s shield, the shadow of his hand ; 
Her dissolution, his suspended smile ! 

The great First—last! pavilion’d high he sits 
In darkness, from excessive splendour, borne, 
By gads unseen, unless through lustre lost. 
His glory, to created glory bright 

As that to central horrors: he looks down 
On all that soars, and spans immensity.” 


Young’s description of truth is also strong- 


ly characterized by power. 


‘“¢See from her tombs as from an humble shrine, 
Truth, radiant goddess, sallies on my soul, 
And puts delusion’s dusky train to flight ; 
Dispels the mist our sultry passions raise 
From objects low, terrestrial, and obscene, 
And shows the real estimate of things, 
Which no man, unafilicted, ever saw, 
Pulls off the veil from virtue’s rising charms ; 
Detects temptation in a thousand lies. 
Truth bids me look on men as autumn leaves, 
And all they bleed for as the summer’s dust 
Driven by the whirlwind : lighted by her beams, 
I widen my horizon, gain new powers, 
See things invisible, feel things remote, 
Am present with futurities ; think nought 
To man So foreign as the joys possess’d ; 
Nought so much his, as those beyond the grave.” 


After all, it is not so much in extended 
passages, as in distinct thoughts, and single 
expressions, that we feel and acknowledge 
the power of this dignified and majestic 
writer. “Silence and darkness! solemn 
sisters!” is a striking illustration of how 
great an extent of sublimity may be embo- 
died in a few simple and well chosen words ; 
and it is unquestionably to beauties of this 
description that Young is indebted for his 
high rank amongst our poets. 

The same faculty of mind is exhibited 
under a different character in the writings 
of Pope. Power as an impulse is less ap- 
parent here, but in its mode of operation: it 
is more uniform and efficient. Pope is less 
an enthusiast than Young, and therefore he 
pays more regard to means; whilst the 
agency by which these means are brought 


See 


POWER. 


163 


to bear upon their object seems to be slum- 
bering insilent pomp. The genius of Young 
gives us the idea of continued, extraordinary, 
and sometimes ineffectual effort—even in the 
dead of night counting the stars, grappling 
with darkness, and grasping at infinity ; 
while we imagine that of Pope seated on a 
throne of majesty, collecting, combining, and 
controlling the elements of mind, by author- 
ity, rather than by direct force. The power 
of Young resembles that of a volcano, an 
earthquake, or a storm of thunder—that of 
Pope is like the flow ofa broad and potent 
river—too copious to be interrupted in its 
course—too deep to be impetuous. And as 
it would be impossible to form any idea of 
the general agency of such a river by ob- 
serving any particular portion of its surface, 
so it would be unjust to the character of 
Pope, to attempt to convey an adequate idea 
of his power as a poet, by any particular 
selection from his writings. One instance, 
almost too well known to need repetition, 
will serve our purpose. 


“ All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, chang’d through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent, 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.” 


Asa proof that the exercise of power is 
not dependent upon the magnitude or sub- 
limity of the subject described, we will add 

‘another passage from the same writer—a 


hibited in the description of a spider’s web ! 


‘‘ The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine! 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.” 


Here we have distinct ideas of the most 
delicate sensibility, the most acute percep- 
tion, and the wonderful expansion and dura- 
tion of the principle of life, in connection 
with the frailest, and one of the least per- 
ceptible objects in nature, without in any 
way interfering with our distinct ideas of that 


singular paradox—an example of power ex- | 


worthy of the genius that unbound the lyre 
of Homer, and awakened fresh music from 
his immortal strains. 

But it is in contemplating the nature of 
Milton’s genius, in its connection with power, 
that we behold at once the full force of a 
stupendous impulse, associated with the 
greatest possible facility in the use of the 
best means of action. The difference to be 
observed in the character of power, as exhi- 
bited in the poetry of Pope and Milton, is, 
that the former affects us rather as the writ- |! 
ten transcript of well concocted thoughts ; 
while the latter, bursting forth from the na- 
tural, and immediate, and constantly operat- 
ing force of an enlightened and vigorous mind, 
opens for itself—for us—for the whole world 
and for ages yet to come, the gates of a 
paradise of thought, pours in an overwhelm- 
ing flood of light, and diffuses through a re- || 
gion of unexplored sublimity, the loveliness |{ 
of nature and the harmony of truth. 

In reading the poetry of Milton, we have 
perpetual evidence of his inspiration—of the 
fulness of the fountain of poetic feeing, whose 
copious streams are rich in majesty, and 
beauty, and spiritual life; and we are satis- 
fied that the fountain could never have been 
sealed save by a hand divine. One tribu- 
tary and mighty spring was closed, but the 
waters only became more pure and harmo- |. 
nious, and derived from their divine original | 
a more seraphic sweetness—a grandeur 
more sublime. We feel that Milton could | 
not but have written as he did. He was less |; 
capable of subduing the impulse of his soul, 
than of finding a language suited to its 
highest aspirations: and it is this uncon- 
trollable impulse operating in conjunction 
with the noblest faculties of human nature, 
which constitutes his power. 

We cannot better illustrate the power of 
Milton’s muse, than by selecting from his 
works, passages descriptive of the two op- 
posite principles of good and evil. On the 
character of Satan the poet has bestowed so 
much of the native energy of his genius, 
that we scarcely feel as we ought to, that it 
is the nature of evil to degrade and debase. 


“Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool 
His mighty stature; on each hand the flames, 
Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and, 


'| object; an evidence of mental power, well roll’d, | 


ee rama reere 
| 


164 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale. 
Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 

That felt unusual weight ; till on dry land 

He lights, if it were land that ever burned 
With solid, as the Jake with liquid fire ; 

And such appeared in hue, as when the force 
Of subterranean wind transports a hill 

Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side 

Of thundering A&tna, whose combustible 

And fueled entrails thence conceiving fire, 
Sublimed with mineral fury, and the winds, 
And leave a singed bottom all involved 

With stench and smoke: such resting found the sole 
Of unblessed feet.” 


“he, above the rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
Stood like a tower; his form had yet not lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess 
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new risen 
Looks through the horizontal misty air 
Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon, 
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarchs.” 


“‘ He spake: and to confirm his words, outflew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
Of mighty cherubim; the sudden blaze 
Far round illumined hell: highly they raged 
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven.” 


————‘' The other shape, 
If shape it might be called, that shape had none 

' Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; 
Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, 
For each seemed either ; black it stood as night, 
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his head, 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving, onward came as fast 
With horrid strides: hell trembled as he strode. 
The undaunted fiend what this might be admired ; 
Admired, not feared; God and his Son except, 
Created thing nought valued he, nor shunned ; 
And with disdainful look thus first began.” 


———“‘T fled, and cried out, Death! 
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed 
From all her caves, and back resounded, Death!” 


“ Horror and doubt distract 
_ His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir 
The hell within him; for within him hell 
He brings, and round about him, nor from hell 
One step, no more than from himself, can fly 
By change of place; now conscience wakes despair, 
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory 
Of what he was, what is, and what must be 


Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue. 


Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view 
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixed sad ; 
Sometimes towards heaven, and the full blazing sun, 
Which now sat high in his meridian tower. 

Me miserable, which way shall I fly 

Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 

Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; 


the same genius can ascend from the lowest 
depths of hell, to the highest regions of puri- 
ty and bliss, tuning his harp to strains that 
-harmonize with both.. 


Still threatening to devour me opens wide 
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 
Oh! then, at last relent: is there no place 
Left for repentance, none for pardon left ? 
None left but my submission; and that word 
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced 
With other promises and other vaunts 

Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 
The Omnipotent! Ah me! they little know 
How dearly I abide that boast so vain, 
Under what torments inwardly I groan, 
While they adore me on the throne of hell, 
With diadem and sceptre high advanced, 
The lower still I fall, only supreme 

In misery: such joy ambition finds.” - 


We now change the subject, and see how 


“No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all 
The multitude of angels, with a shout 
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
As from blessed voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung 
With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled 
The eternal regions.” 


“Immortal amaranth, a flower which once 
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
Began to bloom: but soon fur man’s offence 
To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, 
And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life, 
And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven 
Rolls o’er Elysian flowers her amber stream : 
With those that never fade, the spirits elect, 
Bind their resplendent locks, inwreathed with beams ; 
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright 
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper stone, 
Impearled with celestial roses smiled. 
Then crowned again, their golden harps they took, 
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side 
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 
Of charming symphony they introduce 
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high; 
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join 
Melodious part, such concord is in heaven.” 


“So spake the cherub; and his grave rebuke, 
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace 
Invincible: abashed the devil stood, 

And felt how awful goodness is, and saw 
Virtue in her shape how lovely: saw, and pined 
His Joss.” 


‘¢ Hail, holy light, offspring of heaven first born, 


Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam! 

May I express thee unblamed? Since God is light, 
And never but in unapproached light 

Dwelt from eternity ; dwelt then in thee, 

Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 

Or hear’st thou rather pure ethereal stream, 

Whose fonntain who shall tell? Before the sun 

Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice | 
Of God, as with a mantle didst invest 

The rising world of waters dark and deep, 


And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Won from the void and formless infinite.” 
- — J 


POWER. 


165 


“ And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
Instruct me, for thon know’st; thou from the first 
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread 
Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss, 
And mad’st it pregnant ; what in me is dark, 
Ilumine; what is low, raise and support ; 
That to the height of this great argument, 
I may assert eternal Providence, 
And justify the ways of God to men.” 


| “ Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best, 

;| And love with fear the only God; to walk 

i As in his presence; ever to observe 

| His providence; and on him sole depend, 

i Merciful over all his works, with good 

| Still overcoming evil, and by small 

| Accomplished great things, by things deemed weak 
Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise 

| By simply meek; that suffering for truth’s sake 
Is fortitude to highest victory, 

| And to the faithful, death the gate of life ; 
Taught this by his example, whom I now 

| Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blessed.” 


If power be the faculty which presents us 
most clearly and forcibly with ideas that lie 
beyond the scope of ordinary thought, there 
is then a power in beauty, as well as in sub- 

|| limity—a power in the language of the af 
fections to awaken their echo in the human 
heart, and in pure and holy aspirations, to 
call us back to all the good we have for- 
saken, and to lead us forward to all that yet 
may be attained. 

That beautiful and majestic hymn in 
which Milton describes our first parents, as 
callng upon the creation—upon every 
bright and glorious creature—to join in the 
solemn praises of their universal Creator, 
comprehends all that we can imagine, both 
of the harmony of verse, and the force of 
mental power. Widely as we may have 
wandered from the purity and the innocence 
of the first inhabitants of paradise, this morn- 
ing hymn seems to burst upon us like the 
dawn of a brighter day, when gratitude and 
love shall ‘again become the natural jan- 
guage of the re-illumined soul. We see 
around us even now the same attributes of 
divinity—the sun, the “eye of this great 
world,” the moon that “meets the orient 
sun,” and the “ fixed stars’—we feel “the 
winds that from four quarters blow”—we 
hear the warbling flow of the fountains— 


“ The birds, 
That singing up to Heaven’s gate ascend’’—- 


we behold the world of animate ana mov- 
ing life—creatures that “in waters glide,” 


or “stately tread the earth,” or “lowly 
creep,” and we acknowledge them to be the 
work and the care of an Almighty hand; 
but where is the fresh impulse of undeviating 
will to worship that Almighty Father ? will 
it return with the contemplatic n of his attri- 
butes, and stimulate us toa more faithful 
service, or inspire a holier love ? 

We are not among those who would limit 
the means appointed by Omnipotence for 
winning back the wanderer from the fold, 
and we have no hesitation in saying, that it 
is impossible studiously to examine, and se- | 
riously to consider the well d‘-ected aim of 
Milton’s genius, without feeling a fresh con- 
viction that such should be the high and 
glorious purpose of all human intellect—to 
dignify the immortal nature of man—to 
throw open as far as human powers permit, 
the great plan of Divine benevolence, and | 
to teach the important lesson, that where 
we cannot wholly understand, we may 
humbly admire, and where we cannot pene- 
trate, we should trust. 

In connexion with mental power, there | 
remains some distinction to be made in its 
mode of operation. 'Theré is a power of in- | 
tellect, and a power of feeling. The writ- | 
ings of Pope bear the mosi striking evidence 
of the former, those of Byron will serve as 
an example of the latter. Pope addresses 
himself to man’s reason, and wields convic- 
tion like a thunderbolt. Byron appeals to 
the soul through its strong sympathies and 
passions, and spreads over it the shadow of 
the mighty wings of a dark angel. But the 
genius of Milton combining the powers of 
both, and pausing in its flight from heaven 
to hell, treads the verdant paths of Eden 
with the footsteps of humanity, reposes in 
the bowers-of earthly bliss, avd pours the 
lamentation of a broken and 4 contrite spirit 
over the first sad exile of the progenitors of 
sin and death. 

We cannot complete our tribute to the 
power of Milton’s mind, without referring to 
his prose, as well as to his poetical composi- 
tions; and here we find that strong internal |, 
evidence of his calling and capability to | 
work out what mankind in future ages |’ 
should wonder at and approve; accompa- 
nied with a deeply reverential feeling, that 
even with such capabilities, he was but an 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


humble instrument whose highest office was 
to assist and promote the purposes of the 
Most High. And when he levels the pow- 
erful aim of his majestic mind against the 
abuse, and the oppression of a suffering 
church, it is with the full conviction that 
such is the solemn duty laid upon his soul. 


“For surely (he acknowledges) to every good and 
peaceable man, it must in nature needs bea hateful thing 
to be the displeaser and molester of thousands; much 
better would it like him doubtless to be the messenger 
of gladness and contentment, which is his chief intended 
business to all mankind, but that they resist and oppose 
their own true happiness. But when God commands to 
take the trumpet, and blow a dolorous or jarring blast, 
it lies not in man’s will what he shall say, or what he 
shall conceal.” 


Milton then describes, in language 
scarcely less remarkable for its power than 
for its poetical fervour, the sel{f-upbraidings 
he should ever have felt in after life, had he 
neglected this high and holy call to rescue 
the church from degradation. 


“ Timorous and ungrateful, the church of God is now 
again at the foot of her insulting enemies, and thou 
bewailest ; what matters it for thee, or thy bewailing ? 
when time was, thou couldst not find a syllable of all 
that thou hast read, or studied, to utter in her behalf. 
Yet ease and leisure was given thee for thy retired 
thoughts, out of the sweat of other men. Thou hast the 
diligence, the parts, the language of a man, if a vain 
subject were to be adorned or beautified; but when the 
cause of God and his churcn was to ve pieadea, for 
which purpose that tongue was given thee which thou 
hast; God listened if he could hear thy voice among his 
zealous servants, but thou wert dumb as a beast; from 
henceforward be that which thine own brutish silence 
hath made thee. Or else I should have heard in the 
other ear; slothful and ever to be set light by, the church 
hath now overcome her late distresses after the unwea- 
ried labours of many of her true servants that stood up 
in her defence; thou also wouldst take upon thee to 
share amongst them of their joy: but wherefore thou ? 
Where canst thou show any word or deed of thine 
which might have hastened her peace? whatever thou 
dost now talk, or write, or look, is the alms of other 
men’s active prudence and zeal. Dare not now to say 
or do any thing better than thy former sloth and infamy ; 
or if thou darest, thou dost impudently to make a 
thrifty purchase of valdness to thyself, out of the painful 
merits of other men; what before was thy sin, is now 
thy duty, to be abject and worthless. These, and such 
like lessons as these, would have been my matins daily, 
and my evening song. But now by this little diligence, 
mark what a privilege I have gained with good men 
and saints, toclaim my right of lamenting the tribulations 
of the church, if she should suffer, when others, that 
have ventured nothing for her sake, have not the honour 
to be admitted mourners. Butif she liftup her drooping 
head and prosper among those that have something 
more than wished her welfare, I have my charter and 
freehold of rejoicing to me and my heirs.’’ 


ys 


The manner in which Milton speaks of the 


first stirrings of his youthful genius—the first 
impulse of inspiration, is worthy of the effect 
it has produced, and still continues to pro- 
duce upon mankind. 


“T began thus far to assent both to them and to divers 
of my friends at home, and not less to an inward prompt- 
ing which now grew daily upon me, that by labour and 
intense study, (which I take to be my portion in this 
life,) joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might 
perhaps leave something so written to after times, as 
they should not willingly let it die.” 


The poet then describes the high and 
mighty compass of the work which he con- 
templated, speaking uniformly of the great 
endowment of extraordinary intellect as a 
gift to be exclusively devoted to the honour 
and instruction of his country, and the glory 
of his God. 


————*" To celebrate in glorious and Jofty hymns the 

throne and equipage of God’s almightiness, and what he 
works, and what he suffers to be wrought with high 
providence in his church ; to sing victorious agonies of 
martyrs and saints ; the deeds and triumphs of just and 
pious nations, doing valiantly through faith against the 
enemies of Christ; to deplore the general relapses of 
kingdoms from justice and God’s true worship. Lastly, 
whatsoever in religion is holy and sublime, in virtue 
amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion or admiration 
in all the changes ef that which is called fortune from 
without, or the wily subtleties or refluxes of man’s 
thoughts from within; all these things with a solid 
and treatable smoothness to point out and describe. 
Teaching over the whole book of ‘sanctity and virtue 
through all the instances of example, with such delight 
to those especially of soft and delicious temper, who 
will not so much as lock upon truth herself, unless they 
see her elegantly dressed; that whereas the paths of 
honesty and good life appear now rugged and difficult, 
though they be indeed easy and pleasant, they will then 
appear to all men easy and pleasant, though they were 
rugged and difiicult indeed. 
—*“A work not to be raised from the heat of 
youth, or the vapours of wine; like that which flows at 
waste from the pen of some vulgar amourist, or the 
trencher fury of a rhyming parasite; nor to be obtained 
by the invocation of dame Memory and her siren daugh- 
ters, but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit, who 
can enrich with all utterance and knowledge; and sends 
out his seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to 
touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases.” 


This is indeed quoting at great length, but 
the temptation is great also, to support with 
the highest authority what has been asserted, 
that true mental power is always accom- 
panied with the consciousness’ of its exist- 
ence, and that the noblest exercise of this 
power is to promote the intellectual happi- 
ness, as well as the moral good of the human 
family, and to “justify the ways of God to 
man.” 

We know not that our language contains 


ae RN MRE ESO fate POR SY aD EEE TE “Ll = RS EE TE ES SEE PT BIE. TES 
SS I ELLA TD 
pn 


POWER. 


any thing comparable in poetic fervour, and | mental power, that we conclude only with 
sublimity, and power, to the solemn appeal | the end of the chapter. Of those whom he 
to the Divine Being with which Milton closes | has been denouncing, he says, 


hig second book on the Reformation. After 
summing up a list of evils present and to 
come, he adds— 


——“T do now feel myself inwrapped on the sud- 
den into those mazes and Jabarynths of hideous and 
dreadful thoughts, that which way to get out, or which 
way to end, I know not, unless I turn mine eyes, and 
with your help lift up my hands to that eternal and pro- 
pitious throne, where nothing is readier than grace and 
refuge to the distresses of mortal suppliants. And it 


“Let them take counsel together, and let it come to 
nought; let them decree, and do thou cancel it; let them 
gather themselves, and be scattered ; let them embattle 
themselves, and be broken; let them embattle and be 
broken, for thou art with us. 

“Then, amidst the hymns and hallelujahs of saints, 
some one may perhaps be heard offering at high strains 
in new and lofty measures, to sing and celebrate thy 
divine mercies aud marvellous judgments in this land 
throughout all ages; whereby this great and warlike 
nation, instructed and inured to the fervent and continual 


were ashame to leave these serious thoughts less piously | practice of truth and righteousness, and casting far from 


than the heathen were wont to conclude their graver 
discourses. 

‘* Thou therefore that sittest in light and glory unap- 
proachable, Parent of ange]s and men! next thee I im- 
plore, omnipotent King, Redeemer of that lost remnant 
whose nature thou didst assume, ineffable and everlast- 
ing love! and thou, the third subsistence of divine infini- 
tude, illuamining Spirit, the joy and solace of created 
things! one Tripersonal godhead! look upon this thy 
poor and almost spent and expiring church, leave her 
not thus a prey to these importunate wolves, that wait 
and think long till they devour thy tender flock ; these 
wild boars that have broke into thy vineyard, and left 
the print of their polluting hoofs on the souls of thy ser- 
vants. Olet them not bring about their damned designs, 
that stand now at the entrance of the bottomless pit, ex- 
pecting the watchword to open and let out those dread- 
ful locusts and scorpions, to reinvolve us in that pitchy 
cloud of infernal darkness, where we shall never more 
see the sun of thy truth again, never hope for the cheer- 
ful dawn, never more hear the bird of morning sing. 
Be moved with pity at the afflicted state of this our 
shaken monarchy, that now lies iabouring under her 
throes, and struggling against the grudges of more 
dreadful calamities. 

“© thou, that, after the impetuous rage of five bloody 
inundations, and the succeeding sword of intestine war, 
soaking the Jand in her own gove, didst pity the sad and 
ceaseless revolution of our swift and thick coming sor- 
rows; when we were quite breathless, out of thy free 
grace didst motion peace, and terms of covenant with 
us; and have first well nigh freed us from antichristian 
thraldom, didst build up this Britannic empire to a glo- 
rious and enyiable height, with all her daughter islands 
about her; stay us in this felicity, let not the obstinacy 
of our half obedience and will-worship bring forth that 
viper of sedition, that for fourscore years hath been 
breeding to eat through the entrails of our peace; but 
let her cast her abortive spawn without the danger of 
this travailing and throbbing kingdom: that we may still 
remember in our solemn thanksgivings, how for us, the 
Northern Ocean even to the frozen Thule was scattered 
with the proud shipwrecks of the Spanish Armada, and 
the very maw of hell ransacked, and made to give up 
her concealed destruction, ere she could vent it in that 
horrible and damned blast. 


her the rags of her old vices, may press on hard to that 
high and happy emulation to be found the soberest, 
wisest, and most Christian people at that day, when 
thou, the eternal and shortly expected King, shalt open 
the clouds to judge the several kingdoms of the world, 
and distributing national honours and rewards to religious 
and just commonwealths, shall put an end to all earthly 
tyrannies, proclaiming thy universal and mild monarchy 
through heaven and earth; where they undoubtedly, 
that by their labours, counsels and prayers, have been 
earnest for the common good of religion and their coun- 
try, shall receive above the inferior orders of the blessed, 
the legal addition of principalities, legions, and thrones 
into their glorious titles, and in supereminence of beatific 
vision, progressing the dateless and irrevoluble circle 
of eternity, shall clasp inseparable hands with joy and 
bliss, in overmeasure for ever. 

“ But they contrary, that by the impairing and diminu- 
tion of the true faith, the distresses and servitude of 
their country, aspire to high dignity, rule, and promotion 
here, after a shameful end in this life, shall be thrown 
down eternally into the darkest and deepest gulf of hell, 
where under the despiteful coniro:, the trampie ana 
spurn of all the other damned, that in the anguish of 
their torture, shall have no other ease than to exercise 
a raving and bestial tyranny over them as their slaves 
and negroes, they shall remain in that plight for ever, 
the basest, lowermost, the most dejected, most under- 
foot, and down trodden vassals of perdition.” 


TASTE. 


Taste, the last mentioned of the four re- 
quisites for writing poetry, is by no means 
the least important, because its sphere of 
operation belongs so much to the medium 
through which poetical ideas are conveyed, 
that even where impression, imagination, 
and power exist, we may lose by the absence 
of taste, all the sensible effect of their pres- 


Milton then goes on with somewhat too | ence, as well as all the pleasure naturally 
much of the rancour of a zealot to stigmatize | arising from their combined influence. 


and condemn the enemies of the church, but 


We speak of taste as belonging chiefly to 


still his language is so perfectly illustrative | the medium of the poet’s ideas, because in the | 


of what we have attempted to describe as | choice and arrangement of his subjects, Be | 
| 
= J 


SE SS 1 er tee SSA meen apne ep i ls i 


the faculty of judgment yet wholly incapa- 
—— ma aires 2 


168 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


uses a higher faculty (or rather a higher and 
more profound exercise of the same,)—the 
faculty of judgment; in its nature so nearly 
allied to taste, that we are inclined to de- 
scribe taste as a superficial application of 
judgment. Both are faculties whose office 
it is to take note of the fitness of things gen- 
erally, the one by casual observation of them, 
the other by mature consideration of their 
nature. ‘Taste applies chiefly to those qual- 
ities which immediately strike our attention 
without much exercise of thought, such as 
beauty and harmony; while judgment ad- 
mits within its compass the weightier con- 
siderations of present utility, and ultimate 
good. 

If, for example, we say of a lady that she 
dresses with taste; we mean with due re- 
gard to beauty of form, harmony of colours, 
and general suitableness to her appearance 
—if with judgment, we mean with regard to 
her pecuniary means, her character, and 
station in life; but the operation of the mind 
in the exercise of taste, and judgment is the 
same, differing only in the subjects to which 
it is applied. In both cases we .draw con- 
clusions from the general nature of the sub- 
jects considered, those of which taste takes 
cognizance, being superficial and evident to 
the senses, its conclusions are prompt, and 
immediate; and thus it erroneously obtains 
the character of an intuitive power, directing 
the choice at once to what is most suitable, 
or best. In the tasteful arrangement of a 
group of flowers, we are apt to suppose it is 
an instinctive impulse by which they are so 
placed before us, as to display their beauties 
to the greatest advantage, and produce the 
most agreeable effect; but it is in fact upon 
conclusions previously drawn from the prin- 
ciples of pleasure, that the mind operates in 
contrasting the colours so as to make one 
heighten the brilliancy of another, and com- 
bining the whole group so as to render not 
only colour, but form, and character condu- 
cive to the beauty of the whole. 

If taste and judgment differ only in being 
exercised upon diflerent subjects, it may be 
asked, why then are not the individuals best 
skilled in the arrangement of flowers, able 
legislators, and profound logicians? It is 
because there are many minds possessed of 


ble of taking into consideration the nature, 
relation, and application of the laws which 
regulate public action, and private thought; 
but if such individuals could be made to un- 
derstand these laws, there is no reason why 
they should not judge as correctly of their 
effect as of that ofa group of flowers. ‘In or- 
der to compose a tasteful bouquet it is only 
necessary that we should have clear percep- 
tions of form and colour; in order to invent 
laws for the government of nations, or sys- 
tematize the thoughts and “imaginations of 
man’s heart,” we must have distinct ideas of 
physical force, and moral good, of action, 
and motive, of power, and integrity. 

It is a familiar, but not the less important 
and comprehensive fact, that every thing 
has a proper place; and the faculty which 
enables us to ascertain by instantandous 
perception what is, or is not the proper place 
of any object, is taste—that by which we 
ascertain the same fact by conviction is 
judgment. Weadmire, and derive pleasure 


from the operation of the former; we rever- |j 


ence, and derive benefit from that of the 
latter. Our looks, words, movements, and 
trifling pursuits come under the cogni- 
zance of taste; nor let its superficial cha- 
racter lessen the value of this universal test 
of beauty and harmony, which are the two 
grand sources of our enjoyment. It is not 
the profound nature of the cases in which it 
acts, but their frequent recurrence in the or- 
dinary walks of life, as well as their im- 
mense variety and number, which renders 
the influence of taste so important to our 
happiness. If from the causes upon which 
it operates, we are liable to receive pain or 
pleasure every moment of our lives, the cul- 
tivation of this faculty must indeed be of no 
inconsiderable weight in the aggregate of 
human affairs; yet how to cultivate it so as 
ultimately to produce the greatest good, is a 
delicate and difficult question. Refined to 
the most acute perception of all the degrees 
which lie between the remote extremes of 
beauty and deformity—of pleasure and pain, 


taste is any thing but a blessing; unless | 


where there is judgment to go deeper into 
the essential qualities of things, and to dis- 
cover a moral good beneath a physical evil; 
because the outward aspect of our world, 
even with all its loveliness, and the external 


A ES SR SSS SASSER eimai 


| 


| 


ih ge 


Dr > 
TASTE. 


169 


NR 


character of our circumstances, even with 
all our enjoyments, are such as often to pre- 
sent pictures repulsive and abhorrent to 
perceptions more delicate than deep. But 
the cultivation of taste when confined as it 
ought to be to its proper place, and limited 
to its proper degree, is eminently conducive 
to our happiness, and eventually to our good. 
Taste should even rule itself, and set bounds 
to its own existence, for its lawsare as much 
violated when we are too sublime for useful 


|| service, and too delicate for duty, as when 


we descend to the use of vulgar epithets, 
and ape the absurdities of our inferiors. 
Asa proof of the immediate application 
of taste, we seldom wholly approve of the 
language and customs of past ages. That 
the same astonishing productions of art 
which adorned the most enlightened eras 
of Grecian history, should remain to be mo- 
dels of excellence at the present day, is be- 
cause of their relation to the senses, whose 
power in assisting the judgment is limited 
to a degree of cultivation ; but language and 
social customs having more immediate re- 
lation to the intellectual and moral constitu- 
tion of man are continually fluctuating, or 
progressing, without any perceptible limita- 
tion to their capability ofimprovement. We 
cannot look back to the literature of the past 
century, and pay our just tribute to its supe- 
riority in force of expression, without at the 
same time being struck with words and 
phrases, which to say the least of them, 
arrest our attention, and often impede, by 
the difference of their associations, our per- 
ception of their sense and application. In- 
deed so wide is this difference, that many 
minds endowed with fine taste and sensi- 
bility, are now incapable of appreciating the 
beauties of Shakespeare; though we own 
there is some cause to suspect of such minds, 
that they are deficient both in imagination 
and power, or they would unquestionably 
be lifted above what appear to us now the 
absurdities of this extraordinary writer, by 
the unrivalled splendour of his mighty ge- 
nius. Insensible to the brilliance of a great 
luminary, which reveals a world of glory, 
these fastidious critics take the light of their 
tiny perceptions into partial spots of shade, 
and extracting from thence the rank nettle 


|| or the wandering weed, cry out that by their 


own delicacy they have made this laudable 
discovery. Better would it beseem an. ele- 
vated soul to pass on, and leave such blem- 
ishes unnoticed; or to prove its just and no- 
ble admiration of true genius, rather than its 
capability of discovering petty faults. 

Where the poet is gifted with judgment, 
and not with taste, he is compelled to pon- 
der at every verse; and while he weighs 
the merit of his subject, compares his ideas, 
and new models his expressions, the warmth 
of his poetic fervour is expended, and that 
which ought to appear to us as if it flowed 
from a natural and irrepressible impulse, be- 
comes painful and laborious, both to himself, 
and to his readers. But he who is gifted 
with a high degree of taste, calls in the aid 
of this important faculty, the lively exercise 
of whose immediate power directs him to the 
choice of expressions in which to clothe his 
ideas, striking out what is defective, and se- 
lecting what is appropriate, with the rapidi- 
ty of an instantaneousimpulse. One kind of 
metre admits of a pompous array of words, 
another of expressions volatile and gay— 
one of abrupt and broken, another of smooth 
and flowing sentences. One subject requires 
a correspondence of solemn or melancholy 
sound, another of the rapid movements which 
belong to lively joy. One scene calls forth 
the glowing ornament of eastern magnifi- 
cence, another, the cold majesty of the fro- 
zen north. For the description of one pas- 
sion the poet must adorn his muse with the 
attributes of love and beauty, for another 
he must place in her hand the lighted brand 
of fury and destruction. All this is the work 
of taste, and when no law, either intellectu- 
al or moral has been violated; when the 
customs and regulations of society have been 
consulted, and no feeling or prejudice 
offended; when propriety, and order, and 
harmony, have ruled the poet’s theme, and 
verse; and when supreme regard has been 
paid to beauty, both in its physical and in- 
tellectual character, we may confidently 
pronounce the writer to have possesed a 
more than common share of taste. 

On this snbject we may go yet farther. 
We may say of the faculty of taste, that it 
makes the nearest approach to what we are 


| 
' 
i 
‘ 
1 
' 


in the habit of calling inspiration ; because |, 


itis the direct rule of propriety in action: | 


170 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


a TT EEE me ee 


and were the perceptions of man so quick 
and clear as to carry the same principle along 
with him through all the transactions of his 
life, he would always act rightly. But, be- 
yond the surface of things, man is unable to 
judge atsight. Reflection requires time and 
effort, often more of both than he is willing 
to bestow, and even when he is willing, the 
right period of action is lost before he has 
decided upon the right means. 

By contemplating the character and ope- 
ration of taste, we arrive at a dim and dis- 
tant perception of one of the attributes of 
the Divine nature ; and even this imperfect 
view reveals a world of wonder in which 
imagination is bewildered, and understand- 
ing lost. We know the rapidity of thought 
with which we decide in a moment, even 
during an instantaneous movement, which is 
the most graceful, the most effective, or the 
best mode of acting; and it may not perhaps 
be derogating from the supreme majesty to 
suppose that the same eflort of omnipotent 
mind, created out of Chaos a universe of 
worlds, not only designing their form and 
regulating their movements, in the centre of 
infinity ; but also designing and regulating 
their internal constitution, down to the slight- 
est impulse of an infant’s will, the meanest 
weed that lurks within the forest glade, or 
the minutest insect that skims along the sur- 
face of the summer lake. The power of 
judging when limited to a narrow sphere of 
operation constitutes the superiority of man 
above the brutes; the power of judging 
universally, instantaneously and_ infallibly, 
belongs to God alone. 

We have said, and we repeat it with reve- 
rence, that the faculty of taste in the single 
consideration of its mode of operating, bears 
an humble relation to what we conceive of 
infallibility ; because its decisions are so 
prompt as to apply to immediate action, and 
so extended as to comprehend all relative 
circumstances ; or else it does not exist: for 
let a sound be harsh, where it should be 
soft; or soft, where it should be harsh ; let 
a movement be quick, or slow, as circum- 
stances do not warrant; let a shadow, or a 
gleam of light break in upon the sphere of 
beauty; let a word be found misplaced, or a 
thought ill-timed; in short, let any single 
thread in general concord be broken, and 


a r = eS Rk Sere 
ene pe 


taste is sacrificed: consequently, as sur 
mental and material world is constituted, 
the dominon of taste must extend over a 
very limited and narrow sphere. 

The difference of taste to be found 
amongst mankind, and the want of a univer- 
sal standard of reference, have excited 
almost as many arguments in the sphere of 
poetry and the arts, as the difference of 
creeds in the religious world. This subject 
seems to be most satisfactorily decided, by 
attaching to the majority the same impor- 
tance in taste as in politics. The exercise 
of taste being to find the medium between 
all objectionable extremes—the centre of 
eccentricity—it follows of necessity, that 
whatever is admired by the greatest number, 
must possess the greatest share of intrinsic 
excellence. But here, as in other cases, it 
is highly important to make a distinction 
between mere numbers, and numbers quali- 
fied to judge; for how should that judg 


{ 
ment be a test of merit, to which merit is 
neither apparent nor intelligible? The 
gallery audience ina theatre may be well 
qualified to pronounce upon the height, the 
breadth, the complexion, or the agility of a 
favourite actor; but who would appeal to 
them to know whether he had exhibited to 
the ure the workings of deep-seated teeing, 
or entered into the mental mysteries of an in- 
tellectual character? When, therefore. we 
speak of the majority of opinions being the 
strongest proof of the presence of good taste, 
we would confine those opinions, not merely 
to a few learned men, the established crities 
and censors of the day, but to the whole of 
the enlightened public, who constitute a 
community too numerous for long continued 
prejudice, and too intelligent for egregious 
error. 

Why then, it may be asked, does a false 
taste sometimes prevail, even amongst this || 
community, as in the case of Byron,* whose || 
poetry so powerfully affected men’s minds, 
as to leave behind it a disrelish for all other ? 
A false taste may exist amongst the few, 
from partial impressions, and local preju- 


* The inequalities of Byron’s style, naturally lead the 
writer to speak of his poetry in a manner that may at 
times appear paradoxical: this remark of course can 
only apply to the extremes, unworthy of so great a mind, 
to which his eccentric genius sometimes descended. 


1 
4 


TASTE. | i 


dices; but a false taste can only exist | of harmony and grace. The presence of 
amongst the many, from the universality of | taste being, however imperceptible, except 
the same impressions false to the principles | by the absence of faults, it is difficult to 
of nature, and the same prejudices opposed | bring forward instances in particular pas- 
to the principles of good sense ; a phenome- | sages of the influence of this powerful but 
non which it is not often our misfortune to | still indefinable charm. The following lines, 
behold; and I should account for the ex- | familiar to every reader, or rather every 
traordinary bias given to the public taste by | admirer of poetry, are remarkable for their 
the works of Byron, as arising from the | adaptation of language, and harmony of 
power of his genius rather than the pecu- | sound. 
liarity of his style; and the generality of | |. oer 
ees tie Primeval Hope, the Aonian muses say, 
readers _ slying themselves trouble st When man and nature mourn’d their first decay ; 
make the distinction, they are still thirsting | When every form of death, and every wo, 
for the same style, in the vain hope of find- che a si ge be ait below que 
ing it connected with the same genius, | {hen Murds bared her arm, and rampant Wat 
Happy would it be for mankind, for public When Peace and Mercy, banish’d from the plain, 
taste, and public morals, if the same mind, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; 
: é All, all forsook the friendless guilty mind, 
purified from all alloy, could return again to But Hope, the charmer, linger’d still behind.” 
earth, to prove to the world that the same 
power may be directed to higher purposes 
without losing its influence, and the same 
beauty, and the same harmony, be touched 
by a hand more true to the principles of 
eternal happiness. 
In looking for instances of the display of 
taste in poetry, it is necessary to confine our 
observation to the present times; for as we 
| have before remarked, that which was in 
| strict accordance with good taste a century 

ago, 1s not so now; because the different 

customs and manners of mankind have in- 
'| troduced different associations ; and expres- 
sions which formely conveyed none but 
elevated and refined ideas, are now connect- 
ed with those of a totally difierent nature. 
We are inclined to think that the works 
of Milton would have afforded the finest 
example of taste, as well as power, in the 
age in which he lived, because in cases 
where the senses have dominion—the ac- 
cordance of sense with sound, for instance— 
he is inimitable. But the language of 
Milton is sometimes too quaint for modern 
ears, and in his pages we occasionally meet 
with single words that startle us with asso- 
ciations foreign to what is now considered as 
poetical. 

We cannot quote a more perfect example 
of taste in modern language, than the writ-| 0. ine wild bliss of nature needs alloy, 
ings of our poet Campbell, in which, espe- _— And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! 
cially his Pleasures of Hope, it would be | And say, without our hopes, without our fears, 


: : . Without the home that plighted love endears, 
difficult to find an ill-chosen word, or anidea | \\i out the smile from partial beauty won, 


| not in strict accordance with the principles | Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun.” 
~ - — _ - ~ = “ — 


And in the description of the fate of the 
“hardy Byron,” how perfectly does the 
sound of each line correspond with its sense, 
flowing on like a continued stream of melo- 
dy, without interruption from any word or 
idea not purely poetical. 


“ And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
The hardy Byron to his native shore— 
In horrid climes, where Chiloe’s tempests sweep 
Tumultuous murmurs o’er the troubled deep, 
’T was his to mourn misfortune’s rudest shock, 
Sconrg’d by-the winds, and cradled on the rock, 
To wake each joyless morn, and search again 
The famish’d haunts of solitary men ; 
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
Know not a trace of nature but the form; 
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, 
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, 
Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar, 
The moon’s pale planet, and the northern star : 
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
Hyznas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; 
Till, led by thee o’er many a cliff sublime, 
He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 
A home to rest, a shelter to defend, 
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend!” 


~The idea conveyed in the following lines, 
is well worthy of a poetic mind. Others 
seem to have felt the same, but none have 
done more ample justice to the feeling, than 
the elegant bard from whom we quote. 


“ Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed, 
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? 


a eo ri a li a a SS RRR RR ae SR 


oer ine ree SR a it eS 


——————EEE 


172 


Ana when the poet exclaims, 
st Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, 

But leave—Oh ! leave the light of Hope behind! 

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, 

Like angel visits, few and far between,’’— 
we feel that to such a mind, hope would 
come as a blessed messenger, whose tidings 
would be of things sublime, and pure, and 
elevated above the low wants and wishes 
of a material existence. 

We know of but one word in the whole 
of this beautiful poem which is at variance 
with good taste, and we quote the line, not 
from the pleasure of pointing out a single 
fault in the midst of a thousand merits, but 
for the purpose of showing how forcibly an 
error in taste strikes upon the attention and 
the feelings of the reader. 

“The living lumber of his kindred earth.” 


We are ready to imagine from this line, 
that the author has scarcely been aware of 
the high degree of beauty and refinement 
which pervades his work. 
the poetical writings of Pope, might have 
occurred without any breach of taste, be- 
cause his concise and forcible style is more 
characterised by power, than elegance ; and 
lumber might, therefore, have been in keep- 
ing with the general tone of his expressions. 
But here, where all is music to the ear, and 
barmony to the mind, this uncouth word is 
decidedly out of place; and while longing 
to exchange it for another, we can only 
wonder that there should be but one small 
blemish in so many fair and beautiful pages 
of genuine poetry, adorned throughout 
with the most tender, refined, and elevated 
thoughts. 

Gertrude of Wyoming is another poem 
strikingly illustrative of the influence of 
taste. In the death-song of the Indian 
chief, we observe how skilfully the poet has 
blendea the indignant spirit of an injured 
man, with the strong affections, wild meta- 
phors, and wilder visions, of that interesting 
and dignified people. 


“ And I could weep ;—th’ Oneyda chief 
His descant wildly thus began ; 
But that I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of my father’s son! 
Or bow this head in wo; 
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! 
To-morrow Areouski’s breath, 
(That fires yon heaven with storms and death,) 
Shall light us to the foe: 


“ Lumber,” in | 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


And we shall share, my Christian boy! 
The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy! 


* . / * * 


But hark, the trump—to-morrow thou 
In glory’s fires shall dry thy tears: 
Even from the land of shadows now 
My father’s awful ghost appears, 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll 
He bids my soul for battle thirst— 
He bids me dry the last—the first— 
The only tears that ever burst 

From Outalissi’s soul ; 

Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief.” 


Campbell’s “lines on leaving a scene in 
Bavaria,” full of the deep pathos of poetic 
feeling, afford one of the most splendid in- 
stances of the power of that faculty, which 
can strike with the rapidity of thought the 
chords of true harmony, and waken the 
genuine music of the soul—the echo of its 
deep, but secret passions. We cannot read 
these lines without feeling that there is a 
language for the wounded spirit—a voice 
amidst the solitudes of that 


“Unknown, unploughed, untredden shore,” 


whose melancholy cadence is in unison with 


the feelings which we may not, dare not, ut- | 


ter; and we inwardly bless the mournful 
minstrel for the wild sweet melody of his 
most harmonious lyre. Were we to attempt 
to quote passages from these lines, the 
temptation would extend to the whole of this 
inimitable poem, we can only recommend it 
to the reader as one of the finest specimens 
of poetic taste, as well as poetic feeling, 
which our language affords. 

After all that has been said on the sub- 
ject, we feel that taste is something to be 
felt, rather than defined, yet of such unpar- 
alleled importance to the poet, that wanting 
this requisite, he may sing for ever, and yet 
sing in vain. As well might the musician 
expect to charm his audience, by playing 
what he assures them is the finest music, on 
a broken or defective instrument, as the 
poet hope to please without making him- 
self thoroughly acquainted with the princi- 
ples of taste—perhaps we should rather 
say, with what is, or is not in accordance 
with its rules, for as a principle, taste has 
not yet arrived ata definite state of exist- 
ence; and if the young poet should read 
“'The pleasures of Hope” with reference to 
this subject, and not feel in his very soul the 


é 


presence and the power of taste, he might 
bid adieu to the worship of the muses, and 
devote his genius to objects less elevated 
and sublime. 


CONCLUSION. 


We have now examined the four requi- 
sites for writing poetry, to none of which it 
would be wise to assign a station of pre- 
eminence, because they are equally neces- 
sary to the success of the poet’s art—impres- 
sion to furnish lasting ideas, imagination to 
create images from such ideas, power to 
strike them out with emphasis and_ truth, 
and taste to recommend such as are worthy 
of approbation, and to dismiss such as 
are not.. We have also been daring 
enough to maintain that poetry, as a princi- 
ple, pervades all nature, and if the fact be 
acknowledged that poetry is neither writ- 
ten with that ardour, nor read with that de- 
light, which characterised an earlier era in 
our history, it becomes an important and in- 
teresting inquiry, What ts the cause ? 

That imagination should be exhausted, is 
a moral impossibility ; because the creation 
of a thousand images in no way disquali- 
fies for the creation of a thousand more ; 
any one quality extracted from a former 
image, and added to the whole or a part of 
another, being sufficient for the creation of 
one, that shall appear to the world entirely 
original or new. That power should be ex- 
pended, is no less an absurdity in thought ; 
because that being the vital principle by 
which thoughts are generated, man can 
only cease to think when he ceases to feel, 
and only cease to feel when he ceases to 
exist.. And that taste should have lost its 
influence over the human mind, is equally 
at variance with common sense ; because 
with increased facility in collecting and 
comparing evidence for the establishment of 
true excellence, taste must unavoidably be- 
come more definite in its nature, and more 
determinate in its operations. Beyond this, 
we may ask, is there any thing in the cus- 
toms, occupations, or mode of education pe- 
culiar to the present day, which hinders the 


CONCLUSION. 


joyment. 


say, that its sphere of action is widened to 
an incalculable extent. Is there any thing | 
that weakens the mind, or destroys its na- 
tive power? No. The habits of the pre- 
sent race of men are distinguished by inde- 
fatigable industry, and general application, | 
and regulated by those laws of strict and | 
unremitting discipline, which are univer- 
sally acknowledged to strengthen the un- 


culties. Is there any thing to warp the pub- 
lic taste, and establish a false standard of 
merit? Never since the world began, were 
mankind more penetrating, and at the same 
time more extensive in their observations, 


uniformly prevailing prejudice, than now. 
Itis clear then, that the deficiency in our 
poetical enjoyments arises from a want of 


the due proportion of clear and deep im-! 


pressions. We have not stored up the ne- 
cessary materials for imagination, power, 
and taste to work with, and therefore the 
machinery of the mind, so far as relates to 
poetry, remains inactive. We possess not 
the key to its secret harmonies, and there- 
fore the language of poetry is unintelligible 
to our ears. 
The silence of our ablest poets, and the 
want of any leading or distinguished poem 
to fill up the present vacuum in our litera- 
ture, sufficiently prove the fact to which we 
allude. The last popular work of this kind 
that issued from our press, was “ The Course 
of Time ;” but its popularity rather resem- 
bled an instantaneous flash, than a steady 
and lasting light. It forced its way in the 
flush of the moment to every respectable 
library in the kingdom—was read with won- 
der—closed with satisfaction—and, what 
is very remarkable, affords no quotations. 
Since this time we have had none to awaken 
a general interest. We see many noticed 
by the reviewers—kindly and encouragingly 
noticed, and we doubt not their title to such 
approbation; but we do not deny ourselves 
one ordinary indulgence that we may buy 
them, or when they are bought, look upon 
them as a solid mass of substantial happiness 
set apart for our private and insatiable en- 


173 

exercise of imagination? * We should rather 
\ 
} 


derstanding, and invigorate the mental fa- 


RE ST. ek 2 SES ST A IT ITT 


We do not reverence the authors | 


174 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


of our felicity, as if they were beings of a 


| 
1 gifted order, endowed with a superhuman 
capacity of penetrating into the souls of men. 


= 


We do not listen when they tell us of our 
own secret passions, as if we heard the mu- 
sic of an inspired minstrel, nor when they 
sing of the revolutions of time, as if a potent 
and oracular voice dealt out the destiny of 
mankind. Either we have grown indifferent, 
and heedless, and almost deaf to the lan- 
guage of poetry, or the spirit of the art has 
ceased to operate in producing those harmo- 
nious numbers that were wont to charm the 
world. 

Yet when the facilities for acquiring know-: 
ledge are multiplying every day, when it has 
become almost as difficult to remain un- 
learned, as to learn, when the infant mind is 
trained up to the continual application of its 
faculties in all the different branches of art 
and science, when the memory is stored with 
a fund of information which at one time 
would have been deemed incredible, when 
not only the ordinary and beaten track of 
learning is thrown open to the multitude, but 
flowery and meandering paths are devised 
to entice, and woo, and charm into the bow- 
ers of academic lore, is it possible there can 
be any defect or disadvantage in the general 
system upon which youth is trained ? 

If it be the ultimate aim of mankind to 
ascertain of what materials the world is 
made, and out of these materials to construct 
new facilities for bodily enjoyment, that we 
may eat more luxuriously, move more rapid- 
ly, repose more softly, clothe more sumptu- 
ously, and in short, live more exempt from 
mental, as well as bodily exertion, I should 
answer, that the present system of education, 
and the general tone of thought and conver- 
sation, was the best that could possibly be 
devised. But in looking at the means, we 
are too apt to disregard the end. In devot- 
ing our endeavours to the attainment of 
knowledge, to forget the attainment of wis- 
dom ; and take credit to ourselves for having 
gpent an active life, when it has been wholly 
unproductive of any increase in the means of 
happiness, except what mere activity affords. 

We know that nature is no less capable of 
producing poetical ideas, than it was when 
gifted mer were inspired by the cool shade, 

the glowing sunshine, or the radiance of the 


moon. We have attempted to prove, that 
the same beauty, and the same connexion 
with refined and elevated thought may still 
be found in the external world, and that the 
soul of man is still animated by the same 
passions and affections, as when genius 
kindled the fire of poetry, and, lighting up 
the charms and the wonders of creation, 
stimulated the enthusiasm of him who 
deems himself “creation’s heir.” It follows 
then as a necessary consequence, that the 
connexion between man and nature, is not 
the same; that he holds no longer the spirit- 
ual converse with all things sweet and lovely, 
solemn and sublime, in the external world, 
that was wont to fill his soul with admiration 
and love, and to instruct his heart in the 
feeling of the presence of an invisible intelli- 
gence, connected with his own being by the 
indissoluble bond of sympathy, real or im- 
aginary. Mannow studies nature asa map, 
rather than a picture—with reference to lo- 
cality, rather than beauty. He sees the 
whole, but he studies only the separate 
parts, and to his systematic mind, the vege- 
table, animal, and mineral kingdoms, are 
distinct subjects of consideration, scarcely 
to be thought of inthe same day. He looks 
around him with microscopic eye, and if his 
attention fixes upon the rich and varied 
foliage of the ancient forest, it is to single 
out particular specimens of trees and plants, 
and to class them according to Linneus; 
while from the musical inhabitants of these 
woods, he selects his victims, and applies the 
same minute examination to the organs from 
whence the sweetest melody of nature flows. 
The idle butterfly, fluttering above his wood- 
land path, or resting upon the unsullied pe- 
tals of the delicate wild rose, has neither 
charm nor beauty in his eye, unless he 
counts the spots upon its wing. The moun- 
tain rises in the distance, and he hastens to 
examine the strata of which it is composed. 
The vapours roll beneath him, and he pon- 
ders upon the means of their production. 
The stars are shining above in all the ma- 
jesty of cloudless night, and he counts the 
number, and calculates the distance of the 
worlds of light. 

All these we freely grant are right and 
fitting occupations for a rational and intel- 
lectual being; but when pursuits of this 


EE a a oe SE ape ee eee a SSIES ESP RL I BE SR ia ROTELLA DI SAID EEE ARE ATE ATE REA NRE, ORR eeer 


AD LEE IAT EPS AL TELCO ALLIED IAD ALTE LEICA 


CONCLUSION. 


175 


kind, instead of the end to which they lead, 
are made the sole business of man’s life, the 
natural consequence must be, to render him 
familiar indeed with nature, but familiar on 
such terms that he is in danger of forfeiting 
his reverence for the creator, and losing 
sight of the connexion between the material 
and the moral world. 

We are not so blindly wedded to the va- 
garies of imagination as to speak of this 
thirst for definite knowledge, as an evil. 
Far from it. But when the unenlightened, 
or the imbecile mind becomes infected with 
this fever of acquisition; when the juvenile 
philosopher is merely talking about what he 
ought to feel; when the puny artist no 
sooner beholds a tree, than he thinks it ne- 
cessary to sketch it; when the student of 
nature tears in pieces every bird and insect 
that falls within his grasp; when books 
without number are eagerly inquired for, 
looked into, laid aside, and never under- 
stood; when the finished and fully-educated 
young lady displays her knowledge of the 
phraseology of foreign languages, and her 
ignorance of the spirit of her own; when 
the youthful metaphysiciah discourses elo- 
quently upon the nature and laws of mind 
and matter, and hears with total vacuity of 
understanding that there is a moral law; 
we cannot help feeling tnat something is 
wanting of the ultimate end of education, 
and that the mind may be stored with 
knowledge, and yet be too ignorant of the 
right means of applying that knowledge to 
render its possessor wise. 

The man of comprehensive mind, capable 
of appreciating all things according to their 
real value, will cultivate this knowledge of 
material things for the sake of the truths 
which it establishes, and the consequences 
to which it leads; and will no more content 
himself with this examination of external 
nature, than the sculptor will rest satisfied 
with having discovered the block of marble, 
out of which his figure is to be formed. 

If the question might be asked without 
implying an ignorant and stupid want of 
reverence for knowledge in general, we 
should propose for the consideration of those 
who regret the absence of poetry from the 
world of letters, whether the defect so obvi- 
ous in the literature of the present day, may 


not arise, in the first place from the competi- 
tion, and the consequent labour that is now 
actually necessary to secure the means of 
subsistence ; and in the second, from the pub- 
lic mind being too fully occupied with the ac- 
quisition of mere knowledge, to allow time 
for receiving deep impressions, without 
which it is impossible either to write, or to 
feel poetically. If, for instance, in the cases 
already specified, the attention be wholly 
occupied in ascertaining the precise form of 
a leaf, where will be the impression of the 
majestic beauty of the forest? if in dissect- 
ing the organs of sense, what general idea 
can be formed of the melody of sound? if 
in examining the wing of the butterfly, what 
observation can be made upon its airy and 
fantastic flight? if in discovering the com- 
ponent parts of a cloud, how should the 
graceful involutions of the cloud be seen? 
if in chiseling out minute fragments from 
the side of the mountain, how should a deep 
sense of its grandeur pervade the soul? or 
if in merely counting the stars as separate 
spots of light, where will be the lasting im- 
press of their glory ? 

The modern observer having had little 
time, and less inclination for the relative 
ideas which the contemplation of such objects 
affords to the poetic mind, they pass away 
from his thoughts as soon as his practical pur- 
pose has been fulfilled, and never afterwards 
are recalled as links in the chain of associa- 
tion connecting the material with the ideal 
world. When the wild winds of autumn 
sweep the many tinted leaves from the for- 
est; like the ruder blasts of a less physical 
calamity, despoiling the fair pictures of 
spiritual beauty; the summer garniture of 
green and golden foliage lives no longer in 
remembrance. The woodland songster 
breathes no more ; and the living voice that 
answered the universal language of nature 
from the fields, the groves, and the silvery 
waterfalls, is forgotten. The butterfly that 
Jately fluttered round him like a winged 
flower escaped from Flora’s coronet, a spot- 
ted specimen of a particular tribe—classed 
according to its name, lies before him faded, 
and lifeless, and dismantled of its beauty— 
the memory of its aerial rambles extinguish- 
ed with its transient and joyous life. The 
cloud has passed, and all its graceful and 


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a er FE eNOS nomenon 


a a 


176 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


fantastic wreaths of mingled mist and light, 
floating upon the pure ocean of celestial 
blue, like a spirit half earthly half divine, 
wandering on its upward journey to the 
realms of bliss, have vanished with the sun- 
beams that gave a short-lived glory to its 
ephemeral existence. The lofty and majes- 
tic mountain no longer rises on the view; 
and his towering summit pointing to the 
sky, the deep ravines that cross and inter- 
sect his rugged sides like the foot prints of 
the retiring deluge—the light upon his 
golden brow, and the dark shadows that 
lie beneath like the frown of a mighty mon- 
arch whose will is life or death—all these 
have passed away from thought and memory, 
and a tiny particle of stone—a grain of gran- 
ite remaius in the hand of the modern philoso- 
pher, as his sole memorial of a mountain. 
Or when he grasps the telescope, and strains 
his eye to count the stars ; before his labours 
cease, a dim line of light begins to mark out 
the eastern horizon, and one after another 
; the stars retire before the brighter radiance 
of ascending day, like guardian angels who 
have watched the wanderer through his 
dark, and dubious, and earthly way, relin- 
quishing their faithful trust before the un- 
folding gatesof Heaven. But the mere man 
| of science retires into his closet, and pricks 
| out the constellations in separate spots, bet- 
ter satisfied to have ascertained the percep- 
tible number of stars in any given section of 
the hemisphere, than to have felt their light, 
their glory, and their magnificence, reign- 
ing and ruling over the midnight world. 

We repeat, that no mind can be poetical 
whose exercise is confined to mere physical 
observation, and whose sphere of action ex- 
cludes all those modes of receiving and re- 
taining impressions which are either imme- 
diately or remotely connected with the feel- 
ings, the passions, and the affections. 

The nature of our being admits of two 
important distinctions—physical and moral. 
And it is the great merit of poetry, that it 
constitutes an indissoluble bond of union be- 
tween the two. We could not have been 
sensible of the different nature of good and 
evil, but for our capacity of receiving plea- 
sure and pain. It is-thus we learn to love 
whatever is conducive to our happiness—to 
hate or avoid whatever is productive of 


EN ens Seater ee eee ye | ONT 


pain; and it is this love, or this hatred, ex- 
tending though an illimitable number of de- 
grees and modifications, which constitutes 
the very essence of poetry and which, were 
poetry struck out from the world would disap- 
pear along with it, and leave us nothing buta 
mere corporeal existence, unconnected with 
the attributes of an imperishable and eter- 
nal life. 

It may be a subject of something more 
than curiosity, to ask what the world would 
be without poetry. In the first place we 
must strike out beauty from the visible crea- 
tion, and love from the soul of man. We 
must annihilate all that has been devised 
for ornament or delight, without a bodily 
and material use. We should no longer 
need a centre of light and glory to illu- 
minate the world, but the same principle 
of light uniformly diffused, without reflee- 
tion, and without shadow, would supply the 
practical purposes of man. The moon 
might hide her radiance, and the stars 
might vanish, or remain only as spots of 
black upon a dusky sky, to guide the nightly 
traveller, and lead the adventurous bark 
across the sea.’ Half the feathered song- 
sters of the woods might plume their wings 
for an eternal flight, and the rest might 
cease from their vocal music, and let the 
woods be still. Rivers and running streams 
might glide on without a ripple or a mur- 
mur—reflecting no sunshine—adding no- 
thing to the harmony of nature; and the 
ocean might lie beneath a heaven with- 
out clouds or colour, stretched out in the 
wayeless repose of never-ending sleep. 
The trees might rear their massive trunks 
without their leafy mantle of varied green, 
the flowers might bow their heads and die ; 
and the wild weeds of the wilderness that 
weave themselves into a carpet of rich and 
varied beauty, might perish from the earth 
and leave its surface barren and unclothed. 
Of animal life, the beasts of burden, and 
the fleshly victims of man’s appetite, would 
alone remain ; while in man himself, we 
must extinguish his affections; and render 
void his capacity to admire; and having 
moulded the creation to a uniform corres- 
pondence with his earthly and coporeal na- 
ture, we must leave him to the exercise of 
his faculties—first, to see, without beholding 


——— 


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CONCLUSION. 


a ns 


177 


beauty—to hear, without distinguishing 
harmony from discord, or to distinguish 
without preference—to esteem the efluvium 
of the stagnant pool as delicate an odour as 
the perfume of the rose—to taste without 
regard to flavour—and to feel with equal 
indifference the downy pillow, or the rude 
couch where the hardy peasant seeks re- 
pose. Then in the higher regions of his 
mental faculties, to obserye, without any 
sense of sublimity—to calculate without ar- 
riving at an idea of infinity—to measure, 
without reference to illimitable space—to re- 
sist, without forming a conception of abso- 
lute power—to build without reflecting upon 
duration—to pull down, without looking for- 
ward to annihilation. And in the vacant 
sphere of passion and affection, to receive 
benefits, and remain insensible to favour— 
to stand on the brink of destruction, without 
terror—to await the result of experiment, 
without hope—to meet without pleasure—to 
part without grief—and to live on with the 
same uniformity of existence, without emo- 
tion—not idle, for that would imply a sense 
of the pain of labour, and the pleasure of 
repose ; but perpetually active, yet active 
without desire. Such would be the world, 
and such the condition of man, were all that 
appertains to the nature of poetry extinct. 
Were it possible to concentrate the dark 
features of this gloomy picture into a small 
compass, it would be in the simple idea of 
the exclusion of beauty from nature, or of 
the perception of beauty from the soul of 
man. Beauty is not necessary to our bodily 
existence. Nature would afford the same 
corporeal support, did we look upon her va- 
ried character with a total absence of all 
sense of admiration. Why then is this inef- 
fable charm diffused through all creation, 
its essence so mingled with man’s nature, 
that where he finds food for admiration, he 
finds intellectual enjoyment; and where he 
finds it not, he thirsts for it as for a fountain 
of excellence, until he works his way 


through difficulty and dangers to partici- 
pate, even in the smallest measure, of its in- 
exhaustible supply of pure and natural re- 
freshment. 

That this insatiable desire for beauty forms 
a part of the constitution of man, is suffi- 
ciently proved by his still following the same 


principle in art, after he ceased to recognise 
itin nature. As the facilities for bodily en- 
joyment are multiplied, improved, and re- 
fined, man becomes luxurious and artificial 
in his habits. He withdraws from all fami- 
liar acquaintance with natural things, and 
surrounds himself with all that is curious in 
human invention, and exquisite in the work 
of human hands. But still the principles of 
beauty, derived from external nature, pursue 
the slave of art, and he studies how to imi- 
tate the variety, the splendour, and the mag- 
nificence, which the meanest peasant may 
enjoy in greater perfection, without inven- 
tion, and without price. 

Garcee ian of beauty is one of the most 
decided characteristics, by which man is 
distinguished from the brute. We discover 
no symptoms of admiration in animals of a 
lower grade than ourselves. The peacock 
excites no deference from the splendour of 
his plumage, nor the swan from her snow 
white feathers, and the verdant fields in 
their summer bloom, attract no more, than 
as their flowery sweets allure the insect 
tribe, who in their turn are followed by their 
foes. 'To man alone belongs the preroga- 
tive of appreciating beauty because admira- 
tion is graciously designed as the means of 
leading him.on to moral excellence. 

There are philosophers who argue against 
the existence of positive enjoyment. I am 
ignorant, and I feel no anxiety to learn what 
they can say to prove that admiration,— 
true admiration, untainted by the remotest 
touch of envy, is not positive enjoyment— 
that, when the soul expands with a concep- 
tion of excellence, unseen, unknown, unfelt 


before—of excellence, not merely as it ‘ot | 
| 


lates to fitness for phicient purposes; but of 
that which combines the principles of intel- || 
lectual beauty, with the attributes of our 
moral nature—excellence which leads us 
into a new world of thought to expatiate in 
fields of glory, and to drink of the waters of 
immortality, it knows no positive enjoyment. 
For never was the enlightened mind excited 
to the highest sense of admiration, without 


feeling an extension of being beyond the | 


narrow limits of mortal life; and this ex- 


pansion naturally conducts us into a sphere | 
Hence arise the dif- | 


of illimitable felicity. 
ferent heavens which mankind have con- 


178 


structed for themselves out of the materials 
of earthly enjoyment, and hence our inter- 
nal evidence of the belief, that the true hea- 
ven promised to the faithful, will comprehend 
all that we pine for of happiness, all that we 
admire of beauty, and more than all that we 
can conceive of excellence. 

This intense perception of beauty—this 
tribute of the heart to excellence—this ad- 
miration of physical and thence of moral 
good, which dignifies the mind with the 
noblest aims, is so nearly allied to poetic 
feeling, that we question whether one could 
exist without the other; and if the diminu- 
tion of poetic fervour be symptomatic of a 
decreased capacity of admiration, we have 
to look, not only to the depreciated character 
of our literature, but of our taste, and our 
morals. Nor is this view of the subject too 
widely extended to be supported by reason, 
since the first step to improvement is to ad- 
mire what is better—the nearest approach 
to perfection, to admire all things worthy, 
in their true proportion—and to admire that 
most which is supremely good. 

Is it then a thing of small importance that 
we should cease to admire ? that we should 
lose, not only the most brilliant portion of 
our literature, but the happiest moments of 
our existence? We have observed what a 
void would be left in the natural world by 
the extinction of poetic feeling, we have 
now to consider what a void would be left 
in the world of letters by the absence of 
poetry as an art. We must not only seal 
up the fountain from whence flows the me- 
lody that has softened down the asperities 
of our own passions; but turning to the 
page of history, and tracing back the con- 
nexion of civilization with poetry, we must 
strike out from the world the influence of 
the mighty genius of Homer, in refining the 
manners of a barbarous people, in trans- 
mitting to posterity a faithful record of their 
national and social character, and in kind- 
ling in other minds the sparks of embryo 
genius, from that ancient period down to the 
present time. And if the influence of this 
single poet be insufficient to establish the 
general importance of poetry, we have that 
of other poets, inferior perhaps in their indi- 
vidual power, but deriving importance from 


ee. 
ane ee we ene a a ee nen oo mentnneee 


- 
EE 1 LSP 


4 

nS 
q 
t 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


their number, and the greater facility with 
which their influence has been diffused. — 

It may be answered, that we have still 
the works of these poets to refer to for 
amusement and instruction. And are we 
to rest in this low and languid satisfaction, 
which extends to nothing but our poetry ? 
We have the same conveniences of life 
which belonged to our forefathers; are we 
satisfied with them? The same use of ma- 
chinery ; are we satisfied with that? We 
have the same knowledge of the surface of 
the globe—we can count the same number 
of stars—and class the same kinds of ani- 
mals and plants; and are we satisfied? We 
have the same knowledge of chemistry, 
electricity, hydrostatics, optics, and gravita- 
tion; and yet we are not satisfied. No:— 
the principle of improvement—the desire of 
progress, extends through every manual 
occupation, through every branch of science, 
and through every variety of art, and leaves 
the region of poetry a void, for future ages 
to wonder at, and despise. It is our ambi- 
tion to impress upon the page of history the 
advance that has been made in every other 
field of ‘intellectual operation ; but we are 
satisfied that history should record a time 
when the genius of the English nation cast 
off the wreath of poesy, and trampled her 
brightest glories in the dust—when the harp 
of these once melodious isles was silent— 
and when the march of Britain’s mind was 
unaccompanied by the music of her aftec- 
tions. £3 
Next in importance to the impressions 
derived immediately from nature, are those 
derived from books, which if less obvious to 
the senses, and consequently less distinct, 
instruct the mind with greater facility and 
precision ; and we behold another cause of 
the absence of deep impressions, in the ex- 
cessive reading which characterises the 
present times. It is not certainly the most 
gracious mode of pointing out the evil, for 
those who multiply books to complain of 
their being read; but by excessive reading 
we desire to be understood to refer to that 
voracious appetite for books which exceeds 
the power of digestion. 

Time was when a well-written book had 
an identity in the hearts of its readers—a 


. 
‘ 


CONCLUSION. 


place in memory, and almost in affection— 
its choice passages referred to for illustra- 
tion on every momentous occasion, and its 
pointed aphorisms quoted as indisputable 
evidence of truth. Through the sentiments 
of the author, we became acquainted with 
his personal character, and took him with 
us into solitude as a companion who would 
never weary; and into society as the sup- 


porter of our arguments, and the prompter 
_of our most brilliant thoughts. 


Such were the times when Goldsmith, 
Addison, and Johnson, accompanied us in 
the circle of daily communion with our fel- 
low creatures, and we looked around us, and 
discovered the same principles of thought 
and action which their minds had suggested, 
operating through all the links of human 
fellowship, through all the changes of world- 
ly vicissitude, and through all the varieties 
of station and circumstance in which man— 
the same being, is to be found. Such were 
the times, when by every mountain side, or 
“wimpling burn,’ we found the versatile 
spirit of Burns, animated by the fresh invig- 
orating breeze of morning; or, leaning in 
musing attitude over the arch of the rustic 
bridge, and listening to the melodious flow 
of the rippling stream as it worked its 
way through rocks and reeds, scorning to 
linger in its woodland course, even beneath 
the fascination of a poet’s gaze—we saw his 
keen eye mark the flight of the “ whirring 
partridge,” and then look wistfully upon its 
fall, as if he rued the deed; orhe has turned 
upon us with the lively sallies of his play- 
ful wit, half pathos, half satire, but ever the 
genuine language of a noble heart, and a 
poetic soul. Such were the times, when we 
shaped out our own ideas, and traced them 
to their origin, according to the principles of 
Locke, whose very soul was mingled with 
the atmosphere of our private studies, watch- 
ing over the eccentric flights of imagination, 
and calling back the mind to its proper ex- 
ercise upon sensible or definite things. Such 
were the times, when every flower, and 
every tree, was associated with the fairer 
flowers and loftier trees of Milton’s Paradise ; 
when our conceptions of peace, and purity, 
and happiness, were immediately derived 
from his descriptions of the short-lived inno- 
cence of our first parents; and when our 


179 


visions of celestial and infernal beings were 
arrayed in the glory of his own genius, or 
shadowed out by the mighty power of his 
majestic mind. 

It is not thus in the present day. Books 
are now spoken of as certain quantities of 
printed paper ; and authors, a class of men 
too numerous to be distinguished, mix with 
the multitude, creating less emotion by their 
bodily presence, than the bare idea of an 
author created formerly. "This general dif- 
fusion of knowledge—this removal of the 
barriers by which literature has hitherto 
been restricted to an enlightened few, is un- 
questionably a national, and public good; 
but it calls for a greater effort of intellectual 
power to render the influence of mind as po- 
tent as it is extensive. Unless this effort is 
made, the effect of the present system will 
be, to generalize the principle of intelligence 
so as to neutralize the two extremes, which 
have separated the highly-gifted from the 
wholly-unenlightened ; and while the lower 
class of minds are better taught, and better 
cultivated, the average of talent will be the 
same, because we shall want the light of 
those brilliant geniuses that rose like suns 
amid a world of stars. 

It is necessary, therefore, not that we 


should read fewer books, but that we should 


read them more studiously ; and as know-. 
ledge is advancing with rapid strides, that 
we should endeavor to keep pace with it, by 
a more definite application of solid thought 
to the subjects laid before us in such num- 
ber and variety. It is the mode of reading, 
not the number of books read, that forms the 
sum of the evil here alluded to; and we ap- 
peal to any one conversant with the society 
of the present day, whether it is not weari- 
some to the ear, to listen to the catalogue of 
names of books, and names of authors, which 
form the substance of general conversation, 
(except where politics take precedence of 
literature, and the names of public men are 
substituted for the nature of public measures, ) 
instead of the facts those books record, the 
arguments they maintain, the truth they 
establish, or the genius which adorns their 
pages; and still less do we hear of the man- 
ner in which they develope the nature and 
principles of the mind of the writer. 

When we behold the piles of heteroge- 


cy 


ee 


‘| with voyages. and travels to every section 
|| of the earth’s surface ;—when we consider all | of our nature, and it is a subject of no small | 


| it possible for them to read, mark, and pro- 


180 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


neous literature, which not only fill the libra- | a level with the author, leaving behind it, 
ries of the learned, but load the tables of the | when the book is closed, a freshness, a vigour, 
man of business—not books which have de- | and acapacity of production, like that which 
scended from his forefathers, and will remain | follows the retiring waters of a rich and fer- 
an heir-loom in his family for ages yet to | tilizing stream. 

come, to be read some twenty years hence | When the best mode of remedying an 
when he shall have retired to the quiet of the | evil is beyond our reach, we naturally and 
suburbs, and the comfort of a gouty chair; | wisely adopt the next best. Thus, instead 
but books beyond count, voluminous and | of allowing our ideas to be diluted, diffused, 
large, poured in as the circulating medium 
of a literary society, to be read in five days, | ing tide of literature, if we cannot gain more 
and then forwarded under the penalty of a | time for reading, nor quicken our under- 
fine, to the next happy member of the club ; | standings by a fresh impetus, we should do 
when we know too that the gentleman comes well to read some books attentively, thought- 


home from his office at six in the evening, | fully, and feelingly: and what if we do go 
and returns to it at nine the next day, his | into society wholly ignorant even of the 
intervals of leisure including the necessary | names of others, we may perform the use- 
occupations of dining and sleeping; and when | ful part of listeners, and shall no more sacri- 
we know that his wife (a reader also) has se- | fice our claim to intellectual merit by such 
ven children, a sick governess, and two idle | ignorance, than we shall forfeit our title to 
servants, and that half her days are spent in 

imparting or receiving the felicity of morning« 
calls; when we add to this the subscription of 

the same individuals to three or four libraries 


gem. 
Every stage of civilization, as well as 


for the benefit of their children, as well as | every condition of civilized society, is marked || 


of themselves, and the necessity of glancing | by some strong characteristics which indi- 
through all the books that fall into the hands | cate the prevailing and national tone of 
of their boys and girls; bu‘ above all, when ; manners and morals, as well as what are 
we turn over the pile of books, look at their | the chief objects of intellectual pursuit. By 
titles, and see—A treatise on the character- | conversation we obtain the most immediate, 
istics of mind—-A key to paper currency— 
The lives of all the heroes—General obser- 
vations on the visible creation—System of 
banking detailed—Antediluvian remains— 
Interior of the earth explained—London, 
and its inhabitants--Refutation of the Ma- 
homedan creed—The world at one view— 


what they denote. We should say in fa- 
miliar language, that utility was the order 
of the present day; and such unquestiona- 
bly should be the aim of every well directed 
mind; but there is a physical, and moral 
utility connected with the two distinctions 


importance to inquire, which of these dis- 
tinct portions of our being is most produc- 
tive of happiness, and consequently most 
worthy of cultivation. 

The utility to which we now generally 
appeal in computing the value of our own 


this, we can only wonder at the prodigious 
compass of the minds of those who imagine 


perly digest the contents of these books 
within the stated period allowed for their 
perusal ; and still more-we wonder at hear- 
ing it fearlessly asserted that they have been 
read. 

It is not necessary to ask; what definite 
Impressions we receive from this style of 
reading, which is indeed a mockery of that 
vital participation in the elements of another, 
and a more enlightened mind, whose influ- 
ence is to raise that of the reader almost to 


and operates by material agency. The 
utility which ought to be the ultimate aim 
of every enlightened being, comprehends 
all that ennobles and exalts the mind. In the 
facilities now invented for the acquisition of 
knowledge of every kind; in the increased 


and rendered indefinite by this overwhelm- | 


the admiration awarded to personal embel- |) 
lishment, by not wearing a specimen of every || 


and by literature the most profound know- || 
ledge of what these characteristics are, and |, 


endeavours, or those of the rest of mankind, || 
is chiefly confined to physical advantages, | 


SSS SS =a 


cultivation and dissemination of letters; in 
the assistance afforded to individual re- 
search, by public institutions and societies 
of every description for the concentration 
and diffusion of talent, we see the means by 
which the nature and condition of man is to 
be improved ; but if we limit our views to 
these means, and rest satisfied with the oc- 
cupation, and activity necessarily accom- 
panying the attainment of knowledge, we 
shall never behold the desirable end—the 
attainment of wisdom—which we under- 
stand to mean, the application of knowledge 
so as to produce the greatest sum of moral 
good. 

That knowledge is not happiness, we are 
taught by the experience of our own hearts, 
by the observation of every day, and by the 
undying record of the king of Israel, who 
knew and felt, perhaps more deeply than 
any other man, the harassing and destruc- 
tive conflict of high intellectual powers at 
war with ungoverned passions, and an ill- 
regulated will. 

The cultivation of the intellectual facul- 
ties can only lead us to a knowledge of the 
nature of things generally. It cannot in- 
spire us with an ardent desire to appropriate 
some, and to avoid others. Unless as some 
philosophers maintain, we only need to know 
what is best, and our preference for it will 
follow, asa necessary consequence. It may 
be a weak, and certainly it is a womanly 
mode of reasoning, to argue that we must 
be taught, not only to know, but to love 
what is best, because desire arises entirely 
out of a moral, as knowledge arises out of 
an intellectual process. It arises in fact out 
of our early impressions of pleasure and 
pain, and is so distinct from a knowledge of 
the quality of the thing desired, as not un- 
frequently to be at variance with our judg- 
ment, and to lead us in pursuit of what we 
know to be unproductive of ultimate good. 
Hence arise all the wilful errors committed 
by mankind, errors so evident and so nume- 
rous, that we can only envy the philoso- 
pher who looked upon the conduct of his 
| fellow creatures, and upon his own heart, 
| yet saw and felt no desire except for what 
he believed to be morally excellent. 

We are told that the errors which are 


(ee 


CONCLUSION 


181 


nature of good and evil, and that these 
views are acted upon, because the good we 
perceive is present and obvious, while that 
with which it ought to be compared is re- 
mote. But when a man whose sole subsis- 
tence depends upon the produce of his gar- 
den, preferring ease and indolence to ac- 
tivity and labour, suffers that garden to run 
to waste, it is not because he is ignorant of 
the consequences that must ensue, but be- 
cause he has learned to love the gratifica- 


tion of corporeal inclination more than any | 


other thing, and therefore he determines to 
obtain it at any risk. The fact is, that in 
such cases, our mental calculations are ge- 
nerally more numerous, and more correct, 
than we are willing to acknowledge to the 
world, and while we act from the immediate 
impulse of desire, we disown all conviction 
that we could have acted better, in order to 
lessen our culpability in the eyes of others. 

The first stirrings of desire arise out of 
sensation, long before we are capable of es- 
timating good and evil. We feel the im- 
pressions of pleasure and pain, consequently 
we desire to repeat the one, and to avoid the 
other ; and as we are long in understanding 
the pleasure remotely derived from virtue, 
so itis long before we see the necessity of 
cultivating our moral nature in such a man- 
ner as to enable us willingly to sacrifice the 
lesser good for the greater, and to love most 
what is intrinsically best. In the mean 


time the mind is gaining new impressions of 


a less and less corporeal nature, and as they 
are invariably accompanied with some de- 
gree of pleasure or pain, the desire natu- 
rally belonging to the sensation of pleasure 
gains additional strength, and fresh impulse, 
until it gradually assumes the warmth and 
vitality of affection, which prompts us _ to 
seek certain things in preference to others, 
perhaps more worthy of our regard, and 
sometimes to obtain them at any cost, and 
at the risk of any consequence. 

As it is of infinitely more importance 
what we are, than what we know; and as 
our moral conduct is more influenced by 
what we love, than by what we understand, 
because we naturally pursue that which we 
love best, rather than that which we know 
to be so; so in order that our desires, and 


| committed arise from mistaken views of the | consequently our affections, may be properly | 


ae a See wear nn a Sinpewecil gases em aaa eins Seeing mami allen mabe ecaeieae ee 


|| 182 


THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


/TInTTTTnTTnnTETTEEEE nn nnn ne ee EIEnInnInEInEE EEE 


directed, it is necessary that all our impres- 
sions ebnnected with the nature of good 
and evil should be distinct and durable, and 
founded upon truth: and the science which 
leads to the proper selection and arrange- 
ment of early impressions—the origin of 
desire—the direction of the affections, and 
consequently the formation of the moral 
eharacter, is that which we would earnestly 
recommend to the attention of the busy 
public, as conducive to the highest and most 
lasting utility. 

It is with this view of the subject of utility, 
that the writer of these pages has dwelt so 
long upon the nature and importance of 
| poetry, and laboured (it may be fruitlessly 
to others, but certainly not without enjoy- 
ment to herself,) to enforce the desirableness 
of cultivating poetry as an art, and of cher- 
ishing poetic feeling as a source of intellec- 
tual enjoyment. 

Upon the principle of our desires arising 
out of our impressions of pleasure and pain, 
there is an importance—a wisdom in poetry, 
| beyond what a superficial observation would 
‘lead us to suppose. It is because poetry 
addresses itself immediately to our feelings, 
and appeals to the evidence of our individual 
impressions to attest its truth, that it becomes 
a powerful engine of instruction, enforcing 
while it inculcates, and stimulating while it 
teaches. If while we learn an important 
truth, we have the testimony of our feelings 
to confirm it, how much stronger is the im- 
pression? The orator whose object is to 
rouse the public mind to indignation and 
violence, and active force against a tyrant, 
| or a usurper, does not merely argue upon 
the natural rights of man, and the principles 
of law and justice; but he calls the atten- 
tion of the people to their ruined homes, to 
their desolate hearths, and draws pictures 
of the hunger, and want, and squalid misery 
with which they are too feelingly acquainted. 

We have a striking instance of the dif- 
ference between addressing the judgment, 
and addressing the feelings, in the two ora- 
tions on the death of Julius Cesar, delivered 
by Brutus and Mark Antony. Brutus, 
whose noble mind disdains all artifice, ap- 
peals at once to the “ wisdom” of the people, 
and justifies the fatal deed he has just com- 
ines by dwelling upon one single stain in 


aces eae nena ett ees it eT 


i 


Ceesar’s character—his ambition. But who 
in that motley crowd regarded Cesar’s am- 
bition, unless it touched himself? The soul 
of Brutus was capable of apprehending in 
the ambition of one man, an enemy to the 
many—a destroyer of the rights and the 


liberties of the Roman people; but it was |) 
an evil too remote for the multitude to be | 


impressed with, and though they offered a 


prompt, and at the moment a sincere ac- 
knowledgement, that what Brutus had said |: 


was just and true, we see how soon they 


could turn, and listen, and grow furious, || 


under the influence of that master-piece of 
eloquence, by which Mark Antony gradually 
led their attention away from Cesar’s am- 
bition, and the remote idea they might have 
formed of its consequences, to the bloody 
spectacle of his bleeding body, the gaping 
wounds still testifying that it was the hand 
of a friend—a loved and trusted friend, that 
had shed the proudest blood in Rome. 

“ But yesterday. the word of Cesar might 

Dave stood against the world ; now lies he there, 

And none so poor to do him reverence.”’ 

Lest the people should not be sufficiently 
excited by this spectacle—by what they 
could all immediately understand—the direct 
infliction of cruelty, the artful orator makes 
another appeal to their feelings, which im- 
mediately strikes home. He tells them of 
Cesar’s will, from which they were indi- 
vidually and personally to derive benefit, 
and then the fire he had so studiously en- 
deavoured to kindle burst forth, and weep- 
ing for Cesar as for a public benefactor—a 
patriot—a god, they direct the fury of 
their indignation against the conspirators, 
and threaten the direst vengeance upon the 
head of Brutus. 

This appeal is in strict accordance with 
the spirit of poetry, which convinces not so 
much by the evidence of what we know, as 
what we feel. It required time for the Ro- 
mans to reflect upon the nature of ambition, 
and even then they could not bring home its 
remote consequences to the conviction. of 
their bosoms; but they were instantaneous- 
ly impressed with horror on beholding the 
lacerated body of Cesar, they all felt that 
the friends in whom he had trusted should 
have been the very last to do the bloody 
deed, and they felt also that the man, who 


aaa 


) 


a eee, 


— 


CONCLUSION. 


while he lived had formed those generous 
plans for their benefit which his will attested, 
ought in his death to be lamented and 


| avenged. 


If sufficient had not already been said to 
establish the fact, that the influence of poetry 
arises from its connexion with our feelings, 
we might refer to the history of all nations, 
in whose early stages of civilization, poetry 
has helda prominent part. And why? Be- 
cause in describing what is beautiful, or re- 
fined, or conducive to happiness, it has been 
supported by principles inherent in the 
human mind—principles upon which are 
founded our impressions of pleasure and 
pain. Knowledge ii its prosaic form, as it 
is usually conveyed into the mind, can culy 
instruct; but poetry charms while it in- 
structs. Knowledge requires the evidence 
of facts, and the aid of reflection, and reasen- 
ing to establish its truth. Poetry teaches by 
a different process. Telling of others what 
we experience in ourselves, it engages in the 
cause of truth, all that we fear of evil, and 
all that we desire of good; and sometimes 


in the fabulous history of imaginary beings, 


imparts the profoundest knowledge of the 
principles of thought and action. 

It remains only to add a few remarks on 
the subject of happiness, as connected with 
our condition in the present world. There 
are rigid disciplinarians who regard enjoy- 
ment as a dangerous appendage to that con- 
dition—who, shrinking from the idea of en- 
joyment as an end in itself worthy of attain- 
ment, look upon it rather as a snare to lure 
us into hidden mischief. If enjoyment is of 
no importance to our being, (we might say 
to our well being,) why then is beauty dif- 
fused throughout creation, or why is the 
principle of happiness derived from beauty 
implanted in the soul of man? What, in 
short, is the value of anything without en- 
joyment, either immediate orremote? For, 
when we speak of ennobling or exalting the 


human mind, it is but in other words to 


speak of increasing its capability of enjoying 
that which is supremely excellent. Our na- 
tural desire of enjoyment, is the principle 
upon which we teach all moral truths. We 
speak of particular things as conducive to 
the happiness of ourselves or others, and 
even the infant mind is convinced that they 


td 


are desirable from its own vivid impressions 
of the sensations of pleasure. When we 
teach a moral lesson of. practical difficulty 
and pain, it is still in the same way, by com- 
paring present suffering with the greater 
and more lasting happiness that will ensue ; 
and when one individual is to benefit by the 
suffering of another, we point out the internal 
satisfaction attending all benevolent actions, 
and the general happiness of a life of duty. 

Without enjoyment, we should be without 
desire, and without desire, we should be 
without action—we should also be without 
love—without every good and virtuous im- 
pulse, and above all, we should be without 
gratitude ; for those who endeavour to teach 
the duty of gratitude, while they withhold 
the means of innocent enjoyment, are guilty 
of an insult to common sense, and a pre- 
sumptuous violence of the benign plan of 
Providence. 

How different is the dealing of the Crea- 
tor with his creatures! How much has he 
spread before them of beauty and sublimity ! 
How prodigally has he blessed their exis- 
tence with sweetness and harmony, for which 
we can imagine no other purpose than that 
of promoting the happiness of his dependent 
children, and of leading them by their expe- 
rience of temporal enjoyment, to desire that 
which is eternal. For how should we form 
a conception of happiness, having had no 
impression of pleasure; or how should we 
desire it, having had no foretaste of enjoy- 
ment ? 

It follows then, that there is utility in be- 
ing innocently happy—utility of the most ex- 
tensive compass, and the highest character, 
which poetry is of all our intellectual pur- 
suits most capable of promoting. Let us 
then no longer reject this heaven-born mes- 
senger of a more refined and spiritual exis- 
tence; but let us call with united voice up- 
on our silent minstrels, and bid them tune 
once more the melodious harps to which in 
early life our souls have thrilled; let us enter 
again into the field of nature, not only with 
eyes to examine, but with hearts to feel; let 
us woo back imagination to come and bear 
us up on her elastic wings, above the givss 
elements of mere corporeal life—not to sep- 
arate us by the idle vapours of distempered 
fancy from the duties of rational and immor- 


' 
ee ee ee ee eS OE eee SS 
SRE 5 SS SR SE SP Te RL IS POE ES ELE IE LITE | LAR 


SS 
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| = = | auunnNE REESE EEEceneeenneneemeneeneeeeneeEne 
| 184 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 


| tal beings but to sweeten those duties with a 


eee See eee , 
———— eS 


more ethereal essence, and to dignify them 
with a character more sublime. Above all, 
let us accept the additional source of enjoy- 
ment which poetry affords, not with the ex- 
citement of a transient indulgence, as an idle 
{oy for pleasant pastime in our vacant hours, 


but with gratitude and humble reverence 
towards the Giver of every good and perfect 
gift, as a rich and gracious blessing, whose 
high purpose is to promote the intellectual 
happiness of man, and the glory of his Crea- 


tor. _ 


THE END. 


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